Things That Burn
by Dollymop
Summary: Sherlock/John. Sherlock's lust for John comes to a head at the worst possible time: in the middle of a strange and dangerous case. Slash.
1. Things That Burn

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

**Edit: **I probably will not be continuing this story. Thank you so much for your support and I am hugely sorry. I have just lost the passion for it. I don't think it's my best work. But again, I am sorry. I don't like not finishing things that I begin.

Things That Burn

_Chapter One:_

"See you later."

Sherlock peered at John over his violin. He had been scratching away tunelessly for the past hour without drawing John from his room. Though he would never admit to himself that that had been his intention.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, lowering the instrument and watching coolly while John preened himself.

He already knew exactly where John was going but he also knew exactly how much it annoyed him when he acted as though he had no knowledge of John's five month relationship.

John looked up at him. For once he didn't look he like was about to check himself into a nursery home. He was wearing a jacket and a white shirt that looked as though it had actually been ironed and a pair of black trousers. His hair was still damp from the shower; his cheeks were flushed from the steam.

"You know where I'm going," he said coldly, his irritation evident. "I told you three times last night."

Sherlock was very aware of how his continuing inattention to John's life outside of the four walls of Baker Street infuriated him, which only encouraged Sherlock to affect it even more obviously.

Sherlock made a dismissive sound between his teeth. "I must have been watching _Neighbours_."

He flung his violin onto the coffee table. It skittered across the pile of month old TV guides that endlessly accumulated there, and landed with a loud _twang! _on the floorboards.

John winced at the sound. "Why are you acting like this?" he said impatiently, staring at him. "If you're bored, why don't you go out? Why don't you do something constructive?" He sighed. "Why don't you get a boyfriend?"

"I already have one stray following me around, I don't need another," Sherlock said in a bored voice, slumping lower on the sofa.

John narrowed his eyes at him. "Fine. Suit yourself," he said shortly. "I'm going out with Sarah. I'll be back tonight." He turned and stalked towards the door. "Or maybe tomorrow."

The door closed behind him. Sherlock glared at it, swallowing the urge to scream something after him.

Let him go, Sherlock thought venomously. The woman was a complete bore anyway. Sherlock didn't know what John saw in her. She was just a normal woman with a normal job and nothing remarkable about her in the slightest. What the hell could John find attractive about _that_?

Sherlock exhaled furiously, his frustration getting the better of him. He grabbed the closest object he could find (a coffee mug) and flung it violently at the door, not caring if John heard it. It hit the wood without even breaking but tumbled to the floor with a satisfying tinkle of breaking china.

...

Boredom wasn't dangerous. People didn't _die_ of boredom. Or so Sherlock had been told. Personally, Sherlock thought boredom one of the most dangerous states of being. It bred irrationality and desperation and depression. He knew that only too well. It also made it harder to sleep and more likely that his brief moments of slumber would be invaded by dreams.

Sherlock never slept well, but during his fleeting moments of respite when on a case he could be assured that he would sleep soundly for an hour or two without pointless dreams contaminating his mind. When he was not on a case the situation was very different. Suddenly he was oppressed with thoughts outside of unravelling a murder. And they troubled him.

No matter the brilliance and organization of his mind, not even Sherlock Holmes could prevent himself from dreaming. Dreams were a rogue canon that paid no heed to whose mind they were perverting.

However, Sherlock was convinced that his dreams were not due to a weakness of mind but rather a weakness of body. In fact it wasn't a series of dreams, it was one dream. A recurring dream. And it was driving him mad.

Amongst the faint, foggy smoulder that all dreams seemed to have in common, that sensation of being wrapped up in cotton wool, and incapable of independent thought or action, he would be lying on his bed. Something odd in itself because Sherlock rarely slept in his bed, he usually just dropped onto whatever soft surface was closest.

When he dreamed he would know that he was dreaming. He was too intelligent not to know. Unlike other people, he wasn't willing to just lie there and let himself be played with by his subconscious.

He would try to wake himself up. In a panicked repetition he would try and pinch himself, tell himself that he was dreaming and wake up but this always failed to work. Helplessly he would lie, knowing and dreading what was about to happen next.

The door creaked and he would almost sigh in exasperation when John appeared. Carefully reconstructed in Sherlock's mind, John was wearing another of his dreadful woollen pullovers. He looked like he always did: like he had just rolled out of bed and dragged whatever he found closest over his head. His messy, blonde head.

It was hardly something Sherlock would _choose _to dream of. Or so he attempted to tell himself as John moved towards him. Sometimes he spoke. Sherlock never remembered what he said, though it always frustrated him that his own _mind_ was betraying him and making up those dreamt words. John was just a projection of himself, saying things that Sherlock had made up.

Next John would be on the bed, would be on top of him. Sherlock then, always, became aware that somehow his clothing had been disposed of and he couldn't move. John's warm figure would press against him, his thighs would pin him to the bed and Sherlock knew it was useless to resist.

Everything from this point was hazy. All he could remember was John's body against his, John's hands all over his struggling, treacherously aroused body. He told himself that if he _dared _get an erection he would personally cut it off, but his body never seemed to believe him.

John's hips would be against his, rocking slowly and agonizingly into him and bringing John's imagined cock against his again and again with merciless precision. He would hear himself moan and hate himself for it.

Powerlessly he'd struggle against John, trying desperately to wake himself up and painfully aware of the warm fingertips on the inside of his thigh and then higher and then-

"_Oh!_"

He awoke with his prick stinging. He was panting, he was damp. He was still on the sofa where John had left him four hours earlier. There was something disgusting between his legs which confirmed that he had had yet another depraved dream about John Watson.

...

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bathtub. He uncrossed his legs and peered down between his thighs.

"Bloody hell," he snapped, hastily crossing them again.

It wasn't working. Apparently sitting and simply _willing_ an erection to go away was not an effective course of action.

"Well, I'm not touching you so you'll just have to work it out yourself," Sherlock said irritably, before realising how completely insane it was to be talking to his own genitals. It was new level of dysfunctional, even for him.

He stared at the opposite wall, seething. He was furious with himself. He was furious with John. If John had stayed home Sherlock wouldn't have fallen asleep and Sherlock wouldn't have dreamt about him and Sherlock wouldn't be sitting in the bathroom, trying to ignore the fact that he was very _very _horny.

He hadn't touched himself in at least ten years. In some way or another, he had managed to stem off the occasional moments of intense sexual frustration and need. He'd been in a mode of sexual abstinence for most of his life and he had no intention of breaking that tonight. Though it was proving an increasingly troublesome prospect.

He licked his lips uncomfortably, wincing slightly as he uncrossed his legs again. He tentatively looked down. He was still protruding visibly through his pyjamas, if he had needed visual proof to support the relentless, aching throbbing. He exhaled in frustration. He had no idea what to do.

He stood up, rubbing his aching head tiredly. It was probably sometime in the morning now. John was still not home so it was likely he would not be returning home tonight.

Sherlock felt a jolt in his stomach and stopped short in the middle of the bathroom. A slow rush of heated nausea rushed down through him.

John was probably in bed with her now.

Sherlock's insides burned. He swallowed, trying to force away the desire to smash the bathroom mirror with his fist.

He took a shuddery breath and leant his head against the shower door, breathing slowly to rid himself of the feelings that his own thoughts had inflamed. He stood there for a long time, closing his eyes against the harsh bathroom light and savouring the sensation of the cold glass against his forehead.

Finally, he forced himself to straighten up, feeling calmer. He looked down.

Well, he had found a mental image which solved the problem it seemed.

TBC


	2. Boredom

A/N: So how are you liking it so far? Too much plot for my liking... But I am hoping to atone for that soon xD Bear with me. There will be smut. I don't like to go too long without smut. That and some throwaway reference to Australia xD

Thank you very very much for your reviews. I appreciate them muchly. I'm not sure how long this story will be but seeing as we have a murder to solve and two frigid men to get into bed with each other, it could be sort of long xD I hope you don't mind.

Disclaimer: Bleargh I forgot the disclaimer. How stupid of me. And I misspelled Australia... Smooth. Needless to say, Sherlock is not mine.

_Chapter Two:_

Sherlock was bored. He was so bored it almost hurt. He almost wished he _was _in physical pain. Then he'd at least have something to distract himself with.

How long had it been now? A month. At least a month. A month of turgid, painful, monstrous _boredom_. John was no help. He seemed too willing to adopt a normal lifestyle when a case wasn't available. He worked, he went shopping, he watched television, he visited... that woman. Sometimes Sherlock wondered if John was really the man he had thought he was. All this domesticity couldn't be good for his brain.

Sherlock had surprised himself by not growing bored of John. He could really be a dull, repetitive, ignorant little thing. Rather like a hamster. But Sherlock couldn't help but watch him whenever he was anywhere close to him. He studied him; it was his only break from the endless tedium.

John had been living with him some months now and Sherlock had had more than enough time to roughly sum up his character and his habits.

When it came to his belongings John was neat almost to the point of obsession. Sherlock had gathered_ that_ piece of information from the state of his laptop. Though the model was at least a year or two old, the keys looked like they had never been touched; there weren't bits of food stuck between the keys or fingerprints smeared across the screen. Sherlock put it down to his military career.

John treated Sherlock's total lack of organization or personal grooming with quiet irritation and disapproval and Sherlock had caught him trying to tidy up the disarray once or twice in the first few weeks of his being in Baker Street but that little quirk soon wore off when he realised the magnitude of the task.

"What the hell is this?"

Sherlock looked up, trying to arrange his face into something which might be even vaguely construed as being interested in whatever tedious little thing it was John was about to start nagging him about.

John was holding something long, misshapen and rather soggy. It was dripping sluggishly onto the floor. John's expression was a mixture of exasperation and disgust as he held it at arm's length, his nose slightly wrinkled.

"You know what it is," Sherlock said calmly. "If you aren't able to indentify women's hosiery by this late stage in your life then I'm afraid that all my suspicions about military service are proved correct."

John stared at the stretched stocking, still looking vaguely revolted. "Why was it in the dishwasher?"

"You know why it was in the dishwasher," Sherlock said, stretching and folding his hands behind his head.

"If I knew why would I be asking you?" John said irritably, dropping the stocking onto the floor, where it landed with a limp _splat_.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as though John was asking the stupidest, most obvious question one could possibly ask. "It was in the dishwasher because I wanted to know the precise amount of time that pantyhose could last when submerged in water without stretching or disintegrating," he said, in one long monotone. He paused, staring at John's furrowed brow. "So many women wear pantyhose these days and the Thames is an ever popular place to dump bodies. I just wanted to be prepared."

John stared at him for a moment, looking blank. "Whatever," he muttered, turning on his heel and stalking from the room.

Sherlock stared after him, part of him wanting to throw something at him. He refrained. Just. It would have relieved his boredom for a few moments just to see how John would react to having a pair of wet pantyhose thrown at the back of his head.

Instead he picked them up and tossed them on the coffee table. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring fixedly at a burn mark on one of the coffee table legs.

He saw John return out of the corner of his eye. He was putting his coat on. "Where are you going?" Sherlock snapped before he could stop himself.

"Out," John said sullenly, buttoning his coat. "I can't stand it when you're like this."

"Out where?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up. "With Sasha?"

"Sarah," John said through gritted teeth. "Stop pretending you have no idea who she is. Just because you're determined not to have a normal life doesn't mean I have to follow suit."

John turned to leave. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his back, feeling a pulse of anger at John's words. "Happily it means little to me how you lead your life or who with," he said irritably, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling.

He heard John pause at the door. He silently willed him to retort, to argue. Sherlock _wanted_ him to argue.

He heard the doorknob turn and exhaled in irritation, at John and at himself for his own pathetic attempts to demand John's attention. It had to be the boredom. He _hoped_ it was the boredom.

"Oh!"

He heard John stop short in the doorway.

"Oh, John. Nice to see you. Is... eh, he here?"

Sherlock jolted upright. "Lestrade," he said, clawing his way to his feet. "Lestrade!"

John flattened himself against the wall to avoid being trampled by Sherlock on his way to the door. "So," Sherlock barked at Lestrade who looked slightly taken aback. "What is it?"

John forced Sherlock to one side. "Why don't you come in?" he said, obviously trying to atone for Sherlock's usual brusqueness.

"There's no time!" Sherlock snapped, pushing John back to the wall with one hand and pinning him there. "Lestrade," he said slowly, staring at him with what he knew was a slightly deranged expression. "What is it? Is it..." he took a shuddery breath. "A murder?"

"Sherlock," John gasped. "You're... strangling me."

Sherlock ignored him.

"Yes," Lestrade said carefully, taking a slight step back. "It is a murder."

John felt a shiver go up Sherlock's arm; if he hadn't had Sherlock's hand half embedded in his chest he wouldn't have noticed it. He could see Sherlock's face: completely nonchalant, completely blank except for his eyes which were blazing with a strange, ardent glare that would have made any normal person back away.

Sherlock licked his lips. "Excellent," he breathed, his voice shaking slightly.

He turned and only then seemed to realise that he still had John pinned against the wall with one hand. He froze for a moment, blinking down at John's upturned face. John blinked at him confusedly, wiggling uncomfortably against Sherlock's painful grip.

He hastily let John go and turned on his heel, stalking back across to the sofa.

He fell down into the seat, staring at Lestrade still standing in the doorway. "What are you waiting for?" he said impatiently. "Come on!"

John rubbed the place where Sherlock's hand had been pressed into his chest. He exchanged a dark look with Lestrade and led him through to where Sherlock was practically bouncing on the sofa.

...

"Where are we going?" John asked for what could have been the sixth time.

He didn't expect Sherlock to answer. He hadn't the other five times. He was seated opposite him in the taxi, staring fixedly out of the window and jigging one knee at an alarming pace. "Kensington," Sherlock replied, taking John by surprise.

"Why?" John asked, deciding that he might as well attempt to extract more information from Sherlock now that he was apparently on a roll.

"That's where she died," Sherlock said, glancing at him very briefly.

Their former hostilities seemed forgotten. Sherlock had been increasingly sullen in the three or four weeks since he'd been without a case. He barely spoke to John unless it was absolutely necessary and even then he had adopted a disdainful air, as though John was hardly worth speaking to. Sherlock barely looked at him these days.

John tried to tell himself that he didn't care but some stupid, disobedient part of him had the gall to be hurt by Sherlock's negligence. He'd only known Sherlock a little under a year but his attitude towards him had become increasingly cold. John was beginning to fear that he regretted allowing John into his carefully guarded existence.

"Do you think it was suicide?" he ventured to ask.

"Well, if _I _think it is suicide is yet to be seen," Sherlock said dryly, checking his phone. "But Lestrade evidently thinks otherwise or he wouldn't have bothered contacting me."

"Okay," John said, wishing he could think of something cleverer to say.

He spent most of his time lately feeling like a complete idiot in Sherlock's presence. It didn't help that Sherlock's life was full of the most outlandish, insane happenings that any ordinary person couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Yet Sherlock treated everything as so entirely mundane and commonplace. John at least wished he could train himself not to look so obviously amazed by Sherlock's deductions; it would be a small step in the direction of regaining his dignity.

The taxi came to a halt outside a very expensive looking terrace house in a street that John had never stepped foot. It was surrounded by identical towers of very white, very tall houses that seemed almost to shrink away from the dirty grey footpath. There was a swarm of police cars, cluttering up the already narrow street and a clump of ogling onlookers clustered around number 8, barely heeding the police tape.

Sherlock grabbed his sleeve and tugged him out of the taxi after him, barely giving John time to shove money at the driver. He dragged John past the staring bystanders and John had to duck quickly to avoid being tangled in the tape.

Lestrade was standing by the gate, as usual looking as though he regretted inviting Sherlock yet again to meddle at his crime scene. He tiredly nodded them through.

Sherlock finally let go of John's sleeve and hurried up the stairs. John followed.

The inside of the house was extremely well decorated and furnished. Sherlock seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading John up a narrow flight of very cream stairs and then immediately into the first bedroom on the landing.

John's view was blocked momentarily by Sherlock's tall figure as they entered but then he saw it. Hanging limply from a steel light fixture in the far corner of the room was a young woman's body. John looked up. The ceiling was very high. He swallowed slightly, averting his eyes instead to two police officers who had been lurking about inside and were now staring at Sherlock.

"Get out," Sherlock told them before walking straight across to where the girl's body hung.

The policemen seemed to know who he was because they exchanged a quick look and both made for the door. John stepped aside to let them pass, slightly disappointed to have lost his distraction.

He forced himself to look. It was a horrible sight. For John at least. Her eyes were half-shut, her skin was papery white and she was hanging like some grotesque ragdoll from her neck. The rope around her neck looked thick and strong and was tied tightly around the light fixture above her.

Sherlock however, far from being revolted by the sight seemed to be fixated by it. Hastily pulling a pair of gloves on, he turned her this way and that, prodded and poked her, searched on her clothes, for what John couldn't guess at and then, abruptly, seemed to lose complete interest in her and turned instead to the chair lying on its back below her.

John stared up at the woman, noting the bruising around her neck.

"It looks like suicide to me," he remarked while Sherlock stood the chair up.

"That's because you don't look properly," Sherlock replied distractedly, stepping back with a small satisfied grunt. "This wasn't suicide."

John jerked. "What do you mean?" he said blankly. "She has bruises on her-

"I'm not suggesting that strangulation was not the cause of death," Sherlock said sharply, turning to him. "I am simply stating that this could not have been suicide."

"Why?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because that chair is too short," he said bluntly, brushing past John.

John blinked at the chair. And then up at the woman's body. He realised, with a jolt of irritation at his own stupidity, that the chair was indeed some good inches too short for the woman. The fixture was far too high.

He followed Sherlock back out and down the stairs. "Perhaps she stood on the back of the chair?" he suggested.

"No," Sherlock said, not turning to him. "Have you ever tried hanging yourself while standing on the back of an unsteady chair? She wouldn't have been able to have tied herself so securely while balancing like that."

John shrugged as they stepped back out into the mess of police cars and people. "What now?" he asked Sherlock. "Who is she anyway?"

Sherlock turned to him, his eyes glinting. "She's the daughter of a novelist."

John blinked. "What novelist?"

Sherlock smirked slightly. _"The _novelist."

TBC


	3. Grieving Widower

A/N: Very very sorry for the wait. I have been a bit busy with the sort of end of termness of uni but I've also been a bit lazy lol. I could probably have posted this days ago but I was sort of not sure if I liked it and wasn't sure where the story was heading and all that. Being pretty much a drip lol. Also I just started back up on the wowcrack and it basically destroys my time management skills and ability to get anything done :|

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

_Chapter Three:_

"Wait!"

John turned at the door of the taxi. Sherlock was already inside and didn't look up as Lestrade came hurrying up to them.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"Look," Lestrade glanced around uncomfortably. "I'd prefer it if you didn't speak to her mother just yet."

Sherlock stuck his head out of the door, shoving John out of the way as he did. "What do you mean?" he snapped. "How else am I supposed to gather an idea of her character? Are there any other requests you'd like? Perhaps you'd prefer it if I didn't speak to any suspects at all? Why don't I just cut out the part where I investigate and arrest someone at random?"

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade said in a vaguely threatening tone. "You know that woman has a good eye for scandal. She's nothing more than a gossip mongering fishwife and if she catches even the _vaguest_ sense that the police don't know what they're doing-"

"She'd have determined in ten minutes what it takes most others at least an hour to realise," Sherlock said irritably, sitting back in his seat.

Lestrade turned appealingly to John. "Please keep him away from her," he said pleadingly. "The last thing we need is her publishing in some rag about police incompetence."

John nodded, though he felt that he would be hard pressed to stop Sherlock doing exactly what he wanted to do. "I'll try," he said meekly, following Sherlock inside.

Lestrade watched them go with a vaguely pained expression as though he already knew that he was well and truly screwed.

"Are you going to speak to her?" John asked Sherlock at length.

"No." Sherlock said, eyes glued to his phone.

John started. "No?"

Sherlock glanced at him archly. "Not for Lestrade's sake if that's what you're thinking." He pushed his phone back into his pocket. "I thought it would be prudent to speak to the grieving widower first. Assumedly he'd know her best."

John couldn't help thinking that Sherlock sounded as though he doubted that fact. He seemed to have little faith in people's ability to remain loyal or even loving within a relationship. He certainly had a bitter aversion to John's relationship with Sarah.

"Look, I don't even understand who this 'novelist' is," John said impatiently. "Should I know her?"

"Unless you have some secret partiality for erotic trash fiction that you're yet to share with me," Sherlock said dryly, "I doubt you would have heard of her through her writing. But you most definitely would have heard of her via other fronts."

"And her name _is_?" John said, through gritted teeth. "Wait," he raised his eyebrows. "How do _you _know she writes "erotic trash fiction"?"

"She's been known to nose in the lives of others in search of inspiration," Sherlock replied calmly. "The police included. Occasionally Lestrade attempts to have her censored and, being an avid partaker in the police's humiliation, I wouldn't miss those little dramas for the world."

John stared.

"Georgette Finch," Sherlock added, seeing John's blank expression. "Surely you've heard of her. Surely no one could be so disengaged from the world around them as to not know who Georgette Finch is."

"Yes, yes I've heard of her," John snapped. "I thought she was being sued for harassment."

"Yes, probably," Sherlock said offhandedly, crossing his legs. "Every so often the celebrities she so skilfully recreates on paper attempt to accuse her of Slander or Decimation of Character or some such lawsuit." John saw Sherlock's lips twitch. "She's never lost a court case yet."

John could see Sherlock's admiration for this woman's ability to dodge the law's censorship as clear as day. In John's opinion she sounded like a devious, meddling shrew. But perhaps that was Sherlock's type.

"Georgette Finch," he repeated vaguely, remembering how often he had seen her name splashed across rubbishy magazine covers and newspaper gossip columns. He found it hard to believe that Sherlock Holmes could seriously approve of a purveyor of trashy fiction and scandal. It just didn't seem his inclination. Perhaps John had misjudged his character, though it seemed difficult to see how.

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and stretched restlessly in his seat. "She was probably 'Georgia' once upon a time and thought she needed something a little more glamorous," he smiled vaguely. "_Georgette._"

"Do you think it's a fake name?" John said in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged. "These romance novelists have to create an aura of upmost mystery and allure," he snorted slightly. "No one wants to read erotica by _Bertha Jones_ or _Jill Brown_ do they?"

"I don't see the difference," John said blankly.

"You're not a sexually frustrated middle-aged woman." Sherlock replied wryly.

John choked out a laugh. "Nicely deducted."

"Well, you're not a middle aged woman anyway." Sherlock said in a low voice, his eyes glinting slightly.

John jerked. "What?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly. "Nothing. Don't worry."

John stared at him for a moment, feeling the blood rush to his face. Sherlock's countenance did not alter; he looked as grim and unsmiling as ever.

Faltering under Sherlock's steady gaze, John fixed his eyes on a smudge on the taxi window and wondered whether he had imagined Sherlock's comment. It seemed so entirely... Well, _unSherlocklike_ for want of a far better word.

"You seem to be very interested in this woman," he remarked, partly to change the subject and partly because he wanted to know precisely what about her had caught Sherlock's attention.

"Interested?" Sherlock said with a frown, his eyes snapping back to John. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't stopped talking about her since we left Kensington," John said, looking quickly at him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Because you asked about her," he said slowly.

John shrugged. "Yeah okay. Whatever. I was just wondering whether you maybe..."

"Maybe what?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Had a little crush," John said with a smirk.

Sherlock stared at him blankly, a little frown on his face. "How could you possibly construe my speaking of her in general conversation as a sign that I am romantically interested in a woman I've never physically met?"

John blinked. "Well, I suppose I..." he garbled. "I dunno. Forget it." He broke off awkwardly.

Sherlock sent him a strange look and went back to staring at the driver.

Soon after, the taxi finally came to a halt. John glanced out the window; they were outside a smart, modern and rather expensive looking townhouse. Embedded in the garden was a slightly battered _FOR SALE_ sign, with _SOLD_ obscuring most of it.

"Where are we?" John asked, craning his neck to get a better look at the street.

Sherlock didn't answer; he opened the door and stepped outside. John followed him, the task of paying the driver falling to him as usual. He had to wonder how Sherlock had avoided being arrested all this time.

Sherlock went straight up to the door and knocked. John hovered uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs. A moment later the door was opened by a young man dressed in a business suit. He was perhaps thirty or thirty-one, clean shaven and dark haired. He looked like the sort of person who liked to look good, though his hair was now ruffled and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Though John could hardly blame him for that.

"Can I help you?" he said tiredly.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, holding his hand out for the man to shake. "And this is John Watson. We're here to speak to you about your wife."

The man didn't look surprised. He just nodded and stepped back. Sherlock jerked his head at John and they both went up.

The house was barely furnished. There was a table in the hallway and a couple of chairs in the room he led them into but hardly anything else.

The man stood by the window, his hands buried in his pockets. "Ah... sorry about the lack of furniture," He said distractedly. "Me and..." He faltered for a moment before clearing his throat. "Me and Joana were in the middle of moving."

"Joana and I," Sherlock said absently, gazing around the room.

The man started. "What?" he said confusedly.

"It's 'Joana and I'," Sherlock repeated mildly, not looking at him, "grammatically speaking."

John could almost have covered his face at Sherlock's total insensitivity. He watched the man colour slightly, wondering if he was going to hit Sherlock. John wouldn't have blamed him.

"What did you want to know about Joana?" the man asked in a harsh voice, watching Sherlock with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Sorry. What's your name?" Sherlock asked, turning quickly to him. "Didn't catch it on the way in."

The man looked completely taken aback. John put a hand to his forehead, certain that Sherlock had just secured a punch to the jaw.

"Thomas," the man said slowly, "Thomas Shaw." He frowned slightly. "Wait, you did say you're from the police didn't you?" he said suspiciously, looking between Sherlock and John.

"No, I never mentioned the police," Sherlock said lightly.

"We're investigators," John said quickly. "Eh... special investigators." He glanced at Sherlock.

Thomas frowned at him. "Special investigators," he repeated slowly. "I've already answered questions from the police. What more do you want to know?"

"Were you the one who found the body?" Sherlock asked with the delicacy of a steam train.

"Yes," Thomas said quietly. "I found my wife's dead body." He exhaled unsteadily. "Anything else?"

"When?" Sherlock asked, unsubtly studying the man's face.

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. It must have been... five or six this morning," he looked sharply at Sherlock. "And before you ask, I have been away since Monday. I had business down in Portsmouth. There are some fifty business executives who will vouch for me."

Sherlock's expression was unchanged, whether he suspected Shaw of anything was impossible to tell. John didn't think that he seemed like the sort of man who could do something so barbaric to his own wife.

Shaw turned away, with a heavy sigh. "I just don't know why she would..." he broke off with a shake of his head.

"I'm sure that an intelligent businessman like yourself is well aware by now that your wife did not take her own life," Sherlock said dryly, turning on his heel. "That'll be all, Mr Shaw. Thank you for your time."

"Look," Thomas said angrily after him, for the first time betraying his irritation. "I did not kill my wife."

Sherlock paused at the doorway, turning back to him. "I don't doubt it, Mr. Shaw," he looked at John. "Coming?" He turned and went out.

"Eh, sorry for your loss," John said awkwardly to Mr. Shaw.

Thomas didn't reply, he was staring across to where Sherlock had disappeared, his eyes glazed.

...

John was too angry to speak to Sherlock on the way home. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. He was obviously turning everything over and over in his mind, every aspect of the murder which would now occupy his every waking thought.

But Sherlock surprised him.

"You're angry with me," he didn't look at him but John could see his wry expression clear as day. "You disapprove of how I interviewed Mr Shaw no doubt." There was an unmistakeable edge of bitterness to his voice.

John glanced at him coldly. "You treated that man like a criminal."

"No, I treated him like a suspect," Sherlock retorted. "That's what he is, John. A suspect."

"He lost his wife twelve hours ago," John snapped. "Do you have no empathy? Do you have no _notion _of other people's feelings?"

Sherlock finally looked at him, though John was sure he was not about to apologize. "Look, I'm truly sorry if my treatment worsened that man's grief," he said coolly. "But I have to say that I find it thoroughly doubtful. Nothing I do or say could change or aggravate the fact that he has just lost his wife."

John shook his head, not trusting himself to say anything more. Sometimes Sherlock's understanding (or lack of understanding) of people and people's behaviour was unbelievable.

"Don't sulk, John," Sherlock said dryly. "Tomorrow we'll be speaking with Ms Finch and I'll need you sharp."

"I thought Lestrade told you to stay away from her?" John asked sharply, not relishing a meeting with such a woman.

"Lestrade will do whatever it takes for this case to be resolved," Sherlock said quietly. "He'll understand the necessity... and if he doesn't then he's more of an idiot than I previously thought."

"Why did Lestrade even ask you to investigate this case if he's so desperate to keep you away from her?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled knowingly. "This is a high profile case," he said, the glee barely contained in his voice. "Lestrade is terrified. Terrified of what would happen if the police were to botch the investigation into the death of a woman whose mother could colourfully document their failure again and again and again while drawing all the sympathy and compassion that the police are deprived of."

John paused, considering this. "I suppose so," he said at length.

"Her daughter's death is interesting," Sherlock said absently, gazing out of the window. "It wasn't professional. No professional would make such a blunder as to botch a fake suicide. It could have been someone who knew her. Someone who panicked. But they knew how to tie the rope around her neck. The rope was tied tightly, securely. With such cold and marked impersonality."

John rolled his eyes. "You're the only person I know who can describe a murder like the scene in a painting," he smiled slightly at Sherlock in spite of himself. "It's morbid."

Sherlock wasn't listening. "Tomorrow we'll speak to Ms Finch." He sat back in his seat, his eyes feverishly bright. "Tomorrow we'll see who hated her enough to kill her only daughter."

TBC


	4. Down The Way

A/N: This one is a bit longer. Thanks for your reviews and sorry for the slower movement of the plot if you're waiting for the porn. It's a bit of a change from THW I know but it will get there. I could always write another story which is just sex lol in the future.

Anyhow. This chapter's name was inspired by Black Crow by Angus and Julia Stone. Yes, I will be plugging their music throughout. I love them to bits xD

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Four_

Sherlock was too excited to sleep. He paced endlessly around the flat, obsessively checking his phone and refusing to eat. John thought he had determined how Sherlock had acquired his slender figure.

John sat and watched television, ignoring Sherlock's constant withering glances that more or less demanded how anyone could possibly watch television when something as exciting as a murderer rampaging about London was in action. Sarah texted him sometime after ten and he had meant to text her back but the exhaustion of the day took its toll and he fell asleep during the late night news.

Sherlock returned from making what could have been his fiftieth cup of tea to find John limp in his chair, his head drooping onto his shoulder and the mobile phone still hanging loosely from his hand.

Sherlock put his tea down and circled the chair, his brow furrowed as he looked him up and down with a closeness that was impossible when he was awake.

His eyes slid down John's flaccid figure to where his thighs were slightly parted. Sherlock let himself glance at the subtle bump between John's legs only for a moment.

Immediately he felt his cheeks burn and reproved himself for taking freedoms on John's inert body. He felt a corroborating pulse in his crotch and forced himself to turn his attention to the mobile phone hanging limply from John's fingertips. He licked his lips slightly, thinking how easy it would be to take it.

He had heard it go off. And had known it was Sarah. No one else texted John. Sarah seemed to text him at least five times a day (which was _far _too often in Sherlock's opinion). Sherlock had to swallow his intense irritation every time he heard it beep, knowing that it was her and she was again demanding his attention.

Scowling, Sherlock bent down and slid the phone out of John's limp fingers. He unlocked it and the message immediately appeared:

_Hiya sexy... I was thinking I'd take you up on that drink. 2moro nite alrite? S._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the screen. "Sexy..." he said under his breath, glaring at John's sleeping figure. "Sexy indeed."

He pressed the 'delete' button and tossed it on the table.

...

John awoke abruptly with an infomercial for cookingware blaring at full volume through the flat. He hastily felt for the remote and gnashed the 'off' button with his fingers. The screen went black and silence hit his ears almost painfully.

He lay back in his chair, his head heavy from sleep. The flat seemed eerily silent and still.

The kitchen light was still on, glowing dimly through the gloom. He glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning. Going by the silence, Sherlock had finally passed out from exhaustion.

The journey from the chair to his bedroom seemed incredibly arduous as he sat there. He had half a mind just to close his eyes and go back to sleep where he was, but he relished his few moments of privacy in the mornings and didn't look forward to being woken at five in the morning by Sherlock.

He dragged himself upright, leaning heavily on the chair as a sickly wave of vertigo swept over him.

He looked up and jerked in fright.

Sherlock was slumped fast asleep on the sofa.

John stared at him, a hand pressed over his heart. It was beating rapidly.

He shook his head at his moment of panic, glad that Sherlock hadn't seen him jump out of his skin at the sight of something in the dark.

He gingerly approached the detective. He was sprawled on his back, his head turned away from John, one hand resting on his stomach and the other hanging limply off the side of the sofa.

Sherlock's skin gave off an almost unearthly glow in the darkness. He was still fully dressed though he seemed to be using his coat as a pillow. It didn't look comfortable, especially since he was too long for the sofa and subsequently had to pull his knees up just so he could fit. He was also wearing rather tight-fitting jeans. Never the best thing to sleep in.

John wondered if he should wake him. He wasn't wholly certain where Sherlock usually slept. He was always asleep long before Sherlock and there was no evidence to suggest that Sherlock slept in his actual bed. Perhaps he just slept wherever he dropped.

John edged over to the sofa, gazing down at him. He was breathing slowly, his chest rising and falling under his hand. His mouth was open, and so were his eyes partly. John could see the smallest slither of grey beneath his eyelids. His long eyelashes were clinging together in clumps and his hair was ruffled up one side from where he had been lying on it. He traced the flushed red imprint that Sherlock's coat had left on one side of his face. It ran down his high cheekbone to the curve of his full, almost feminine lips.

John started, realising abruptly how closely he was studying his friend's face. He shook his head slightly, rubbing his forehead. He needed to sleep.

He turned his back on Sherlock and went up to his room.

...

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, barely daring to move. He had heard John leave but part of him expected him to return any moment.

He lay where he was for a few minutes in perfect stillness, listening for any sign of footsteps. There was silence.

Finally he sat up, gingerly straightening his numb legs. He glanced down at the front of his jeans. The bump was obvious. It certainly _felt _obvious, but John hadn't seen it. He was sure he hadn't seen it. He had been watching him from under his eyelashes and he had seen how John had looked at him. He had examined Sherlock's face so closely, those wide blue eyes of his unreadable but clearly enrapt by Sherlock's apparently slumbering features.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, barely daring to let himself think. He was powerless to stop his mind from rocketing far, far ahead of himself. He read too much into those looks. His body heated up so rapidly when he thought of John watching him that it was a struggle to check himself.

He had to stop thinking. He covered his face with his hands, trying to quash the storm of sensations that his dreams and the helpless arousal and John's damned perfect eyes-

"Perfect eyes?" he said aloud, staring at the far wall in disbelief.

He was losing his mind. This was just a stage. This was just a... a phase. He was well overdue for a hormonal explosion. It was inevitable that a lifetime of abstinence would take its toll. John had walked into his life just at the moment his hormones decided to reap havoc.

Sherlock thought he knew exactly who John was and what he was about but John kept doing things which surprised him. John could be so painfully upstanding and honourable. Such a perfect solider. He had a tendency to be ignorant and small-minded but he seemed to have a genuine want to help people. On one hand he was so credulous and on the other he was as jaded as any other ex-soldier Sherlock had encountered. And he was so smitten by Sherlock's apparent heroism, though he would never admit it. And he was heterosexual. He was very, very heterosexual and no amount of wanton dreams would change that fact.

"And who cares anyway?" Sherlock spoke aloud again, his voice harsh as he tried desperately to convince himself.

John could have Sarah. Sarah could have John. Sherlock had no time for either of them. Sherlock had a murderer to track down. These dreams would stop. These feelings would dissipate. He just had to wait.

...

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up to where John was frowning down at his phone at the kitchen table. "Sherlock," he said again, looking up at him. "Have you been going through my phone?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "As much as your social life fascinates me, I can safely say that I have not touched your phone."

John looked away, shrugging.

"In the last thirty minutes," Sherlock added under his breath.

"It's just..." John seemed to be going through every message in his inbox. "I swore I got a message last night. Was it your phone?"

"Could have been," Sherlock said, folding the newspaper and dropping it on the sofa beside him. "I seem to have misplaced it."

"On the DVD player," John said, waving a hand vaguely towards the television.

"Ah!" Sherlock said, spotting it. "Excellent." He plucked it up and slotted it in his jeans. "Come on. We should go."

John finally looked up. "But it's only eight!" he said. "I thought she wasn't expecting us until nine-thirty?"

"She isn't," Sherlock said, pulling his coat on. "But we have to make a stop first."

"Make a stop where?" John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock ignored him. "Hurry up." He tapped his foot impatiently as John pulled his coat on.

He glanced at John's mobile, now hanging out of his trouser pocket. Sherlock wondered how long it'd take him to realise he'd blocked Sarah's number.

...

"We're not supposed to be here," John remarked as they went up the steps of the late Joana Shaw's house. "Lestrade would kill you for breaking in here. It's still a crime scene."

The crime scene was now deserted. The body had been carted away to the coroner and the rooms had been looked over vaguely, though most of the police were convinced it was suicide. As improbable as it was, it made their lives easier if it were suicide. Lestrade seemed to be the only one who had suspicions, which raised Sherlock's respect of him ever so _slightly._

Sherlock tried the doorknob and unsurprisingly it was locked. "Even dead people keep their doors locked. What an age we live in," he said, clambering over the side of the stairs and vaulting down into the dusty little courtyard beside it.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, hurrying to the side of the stairs and staring down to him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't reply, he bent down on his hands and knees, examining the window of the rumpus room below the house. He knelt back and glanced up to where John was still standing on the stairs, staring at him. "What are you waiting for?" he said impatiently.

John swallowed, looking around uncomfortably and then finally, with some difficulty, he swung his legs over the side of the stairs and slid down into the courtyard.

He stared as Sherlock positioned his foot against the rumpus room window. John realised what he was about to do a moment too late. The crack of the glass seemed as loud as a gunshot through the quiet morning air.

"Sherlock," he snapped. "You've just damaged private property-"

Sherlock was already halfway through the window. John watched as his lithe figure disappeared down into the rumpus room. John had no choice but to follow. He stuck his legs through the window, slowly lowering himself inside. He realised there was nothing beneath him for him to stand on. He would have to drop and hope that it wasn't as far down as it felt.

Taking a deep breath, he let go of the window and landed with a thud on the concrete. Sherlock was already hurrying up the stairs at the far end of the room. John hastened after him.

"This is break and enter," he hissed, reaching him at the top of the stairs. "This is illegal."

"And if we are caught you may, by all means, blame me," Sherlock replied coolly, turning up the stairs to the where the bedrooms were. "You're just a naive bystander that I led astray."

John narrowed his eyes after him as they reached the landing. "What do you want to look for anyway? There's nothing here. They've already combed the place."

"If by 'combed' you mean 'looked briefly at during their lunchbreak' then perhaps, yes," Sherlock replied.

He pushed open the bedroom door and John unconsciously held his breath for a moment as it swung back. Half of him expected to see the dead woman's body still hanging there, but the room was empty. And spotlessly clean. The chair had also been removed, perhaps for forensics.

Sherlock began to rifle through drawers at an alarming pace. The bedroom wasn't densely furnished. There was a desk, a vanity, a double bed and a closet in the far corner.

John sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, feeling as though he was intruding on hallowed ground. He watched Sherlock rummage through the woman's belongings at a lightning pace.

"How did you know that her husband wouldn't be here?" he asked mildly, sure it was a stupid question but nonetheless curious.

"Would you want to sleep in the house your wife was found dead in?" Sherlock said over his shoulder, turning his attention to the vanity. "I'd wager that he's at a hotel somewhere, making plans to sell this house as soon as he practically can."

Silence fell on them. Sherlock seemed immersed in what he was doing. John glanced at the closet. He stood up and went across to it, pulling open the door.

He peered inside. There was nothing unusual. It was rather small and clothes seemed to take up almost every square inch. There was a pile of shoes in one corner in rather untidy disarray.

John was about to close it again when something caught his eye. "Sherlock!" he said. "Come here."

Sherlock was at his side immediately. "What is it?" he said eagerly.

John pointed down to the space below a cluster of hanging business suits. There were two wine glasses, empty except for the tiniest dreg of red wine.

"Excellent, John!" Sherlock said, beaming. "Excellent."

John tried not to feel too pleased with himself but nonetheless felt his cheeks colour as Sherlock plucked a pair of gloves from his pocket. He leant down and picked up the glasses, staring at them closely.

"Do you think they're a clue?" John said, watching Sherlock as his sharp eyes ran all over the glasses.

"Well, these are new glasses," Sherlock said, flipping them upside down. "Look, the price stickers haven't been removed yet. She probably bought them in a hurry."

"For a date?" John suggested.

"Could be," Sherlock replied. "Her husband could have been out of town a lot, she could have become restless."

"There's lipstick on one," John said suddenly, staring at the smudge of faint red.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied calmly. "But I wonder if it was hers or her guest's."

Silence fell on them as they both reflected on this. John thought that an affair gone sour seemed the most likely explanation but he doubted that it would satisfy Sherlock. Sherlock preferred things to be as twisted and bizarre as possible. A bored wife being done in by her lover was far too predictable for his tastes.

Suddenly they were torn from their thoughts by the sound of the door downstairs slamming shut.

John froze in horror. "Sherlock," he said, staring at the detective.

Sherlock looked completely calm. "Shush," he said quickly.

They both listened hard, straining for a sound to confirm their fears. John heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps, of someone walking in the hall downstairs, of someone dropping keys onto a table.

Sherlock nodded silently to John. "In the closet," he said.

He turned, taking the glasses with him. John followed him, his heart beating hard in his chest as he heard the footsteps reach the stairs.

"Quickly!" Sherlock hissed, betraying his agitation for the first time. He pushed the glasses back under the business suits and yanked John inside after him.

John hastily closed the door, throwing them both into total darkness. Outside, they heard someone open the bedroom door.

"A man. Heavier steps but not ungainly. Probably wearing business shoes," Sherlock breathed into his ear, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Shut up," John said under his breath.

Whoever it was they had come to a halt outside. John wondered if he had heard the closet door shut, but a moment later they had moved to the desk and John heard the creak of someone sitting in the desk chair.

Sherlock was pressed against John's back and he kept leaning further and further forward to listen to what was happening outside. John's face was a bare inch from the closet door.

"Sherlock," he hissed, "stop."

He felt Sherlock lean back again, almost abruptly. "Sorry."

Sherlock stood frozen where he was, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he was closer to John than he'd ever been. He could feel his shoulders, his back, his legs... the curve of his arse pressed against him and he suddenly felt very hot in the tiny, confined space.

The clothes were pressing in on them from all sides and Sherlock's arms were being crushed by the weight of the business suits either side of him. He tried flattening them by his sides and then putting them behind his back and then crossing them until John finally hissed:

"Sherlock, just put them on my waist."

Sherlock hesitated and then forced himself to do as John said. Hesitation meant uncertainty and Sherlock Holmes was _never _uncertain.

He gingerly touched John's hips and felt John's back arch slightly. "Not that low," he heard him gasp.

Sherlock flushed and moved his hands higher, conscious that he was more or less feeling John up. He rested his hands on the bulk of John's woollen jumper and concentrated on calming his breathing.

He had almost completely forgotten that he was supposed to be listening to whoever was outside and was only reminded again when a phone went off. For one dreadful moment Sherlock thought it was his or John's but then he heard a voice outside:

"Hello?"

John and Sherlock both raised their eyebrows. It was Thomas Shaw.

"Jesus-"

John heard the chair squeal as Thomas stood up abruptly. "I told you not to call me. What if-"

He broke off. John could feel Sherlock forcing himself against him again in his eagerness to hear.

"Of course the police have spoken to me! My wife is dead! Do you think they'd just _overlook_ me out of pity?"

"Say their name," Sherlock breathed, forgetting completely about John or that his hands were clamped around his waist and he was pressed chest, stomach and crotch against him. "Say it."

"That's none of your business. Do I have to tell you what I'm doing at all hours of the day?" Thomas said sharply from outside, and John heard Sherlock exhale heavily. "No. I'm at home." There was a brief silence. "I don't believe you... Well, where I go has nothing to do with you!" he snapped, the irritation bursting back into his voice.

John suddenly felt the door loosen slightly against him. He gasped, pressing forcefully backwards into Sherlock. He felt him jerk violently. "The door," he hissed.

"I don't want to talk about it. Just... just leave me alone for a bit, will you?"

There was a beep and then silence.

John silently begged him to leave, not least because Sherlock was clinging so hard onto him that he could feel his fingernails through his clothes.

Outside they heard Shaw sigh and the snap of his phone as he closed it. Then the floorboards creaked and finally the door closed and there was silence.

John finally dared to breathe. "Alone at last," he said tiredly.

Sherlock gave an odd, strangled laugh from behind him. "Yes, we should probably... You know," he swallowed, "get out of the closet."

John laughed, trying to tug himself out of Sherlock's grip. "Eh... you're still holding my waist," he said.

Sherlock quickly let go, not trusting himself to speak as John untangled himself from the mess of clothes and pushed the closet door open. "God, it's good to be out of there," he said, fanning himself.

Sherlock silently followed him out, trying to bully his thoughts back to what he was supposed to be thinking about. A murder. A woman being dead. And-

"Oh damn," he said, looking at his phone. "It's already nine. We have to hurry."

"What about if he's still down there?" John hissed as Sherlock went to the door of the bedroom.

Sherlock stopped, turning to him. "Alright. We'll go the back way."

"What_ back_ way?" John snapped as Sherlock went across to the window.

Sherlock gripped the window and tugged hard at it. It reluctantly slid open; moving in a slow, sluggish fashion like it hadn't been opened in years.

"No..." John said slowly, watching Sherlock as he stuck his head out of the window and peered down. "Sherlock! I am not jumping out of a window!"

"Will you lower your voice?" Sherlock snapped, turning back to him. "It's barely four metres down and there's shed below. If you position yourself right, you can land on it."

John stared at him in disbelief. "Have you forgotten that a few weeks ago I couldn't walk without a stick?"

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You walk fine."

John walked over to the window and peered down. It looked a lot higher than four metres to him and the shed didn't look entirely safe to be landing on top of from a height either. "That is more than four metres," he said sullenly.

Sherlock clambered onto the windowsill, throwing his legs over. "Look, I'll go down first," he said patiently.

"No, wait!" John blurted out just as Sherlock slid down over the edge.

For an agonising moment there was silence and then he heard the low _clunk _of Sherlock's shoes hitting the roof of the shed.

John gingerly leant over the window and looked down. Sherlock peered up at him, gesturing to him to follow.

John swallowed, glancing behind him to the closed door. Thomas Shaw could return any time. He had to be quick.

He sat awkwardly on the windowsill, conscious of anyone who might drive past or open their front door and see him. He hoped dearly that no one called the police.

He really did not want to look down. It felt far too high and even the shed seemed to be ten metres below him.

"Come on!" he heard Sherlock hiss from below.

Taking a deep breath, John turned and slid down from the window with his stomach pressed against the bricks. He couldn't bring himself to jump. He clung onto the window with both hands, trying to will himself to let go.

"Oh God," he gasped, feeling like his hands were fused to the windowsill. "I can't do this."

He thought of Sherlock waiting below him and his cheeks burned with humiliation. Well, now Sherlock knew the brave little soldier's dirty little secret. He was scared shitless of heights.

John looked up, wondering if he could pull himself back up. His arms were beginning to ache and he was certain that any moment he wouldn't have any choice but to let go unless he wanted to dislocate his shoulders.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his calve. "It's alright," he heard Sherlock say quietly. "You're almost there. If you drop, it's barely a metre down."

"I... can't..." John panted, his fingers slipping slightly on the sill. "Oh God..." He felt a thrill of panic go through him, trying desperately to dig his nails into the wood.

"I'll catch you," Sherlock said softly. "Just let go."

John swallowed. As humiliating as it would be in normal circumstances to be caught by Sherlock, his ego was definitely the last thing on his mind at present. "Alright," he said weakly.

He felt Sherlock's hands gently touch his legs. Breathing in hard, he loosened his grip on the windowsill. Almost immediately he felt himself fall. He turned his head away just in time to keep it from being scraped down the bricks and the next thing he knew he felt his body press against Sherlock's as he fell down beside him.

Sherlock was fully aware that it was definitely not wise to encourage more contact with John than was absolutely necessary but he had managed to convince himself that it was purely out of concern for John that he had put his hands all over John's body as he slid down against him from the window.

He heard John exhale in relief. "Some solider," he said grimly, not seeming to notice that Sherlock's hands were touching his chest and waist.

"Being afraid of heights is nothing to be ashamed of," Sherlock said, conscious of the breathlessness of his voice. "It affects about 5% of the population."

"That doesn't sound like very many," John said wryly.

Sherlock forced himself to unhook his hands from John and looked down to the ground below. "Will you be alright getting down?"

John nodded, following Sherlock and sitting down on the edge of the shed and then sliding down onto the damp grass below. Sherlock glanced up and down. It was a small alleyway; there was a path that led up through it to a small grove behind the house.

"We should wait," Sherlock said, putting out a hand to keep John back. "If he sees us coming out of here he'll know we were snooping about."

He flattened himself against the wall behind the shed and John did so too. Sherlock cursed his body for reacting to the feel of John's figure so close to his. He swore he could feel the heat radiating off John's body and hear his heightened breathing.

"You didn't tell me you were afraid of heights," Sherlock said, deciding that breaking the silence would be best for both of them.

John sent him a strange look. "I'm not aware that it was something you'd be interested in."

"It wouldn't," Sherlock replied calmly. "But I've heard it's considered the norm among 'friends' to pretend to listen to each others' dull, drudging tales of woe."

"Not everyone," John said shortly. "Some people are actually interested in other people's problems."

"Be that as it may. It's nothing to be ashamed of to have fears," Sherlock said, careful not to make it seem as though he was mollycoddling him, though the motions of comfort were certainly foreign to him. "Everyone does."

John looked at him, cocking an eyebrow slightly. "What are you afraid of?"

Sherlock stopped short. "I-

He was rescued from having to reply by the sound of voices nearby.

"I saw them, Mr. Shaw."

It was a woman's voice. She sounded quite old. Sherlock was sure he knew what was coming.

"Are you certain?" Shaw's voice came. "What did they look like?"

"Oh... I couldn't say. My eyes aren't what they used to be but I saw two men as clear as day clambering out of that window."

"Are you sure you didn't imagine it?" Mr. Shaw's voice sounded sharp.

"I saw them! I'm not senile yet, Mr. Shaw!" the woman said indignantly.

They were getting closer. Sherlock was sure they were going to be caught. Without thinking, he grabbed John's hand and yanked him down towards the trees at the far end of the alley. John gasped in surprise but allowed himself to be tugged down the way to the clump of scrub.

"No, I know," Shaw said quickly. "I'm sorry. I'm just..."

John was yanked backwards into the trees just as Thomas Shaw and the old lady appeared from behind the shed. The woman was still in her nightdress and slippers with her hair half in rollers.

"Well, they're not here now," Thomas Shaw said tiredly, staring around the deserted alley.

"They were here," The old woman said, squinting at the shed and then up to the open window above. "I'm sure I didn't imagine it! I was going to call the police but I didn't want to cause a fuss. You know I don't like causing a fuss, Mr. Shaw. I just wanted to let you know so you could deal with it as you please. I'm not one to go poking into other people's concerns-"

"Yes, thank you. It was very neighbourly of you to alert me," Shaw interrupted, his eyes roaming over the trees John and Sherlock were hidden in. "You should go home, Marie. You'll catch a cold. I'll check behind the house. They're probably long gone by now."

"Alright, Mr. Shaw," Marie said fondly, clasping his hands briefly. "I'm very sorry to bother you at such a time but I just thought I should let you know. I didn't want to cause you any trouble. I know you've got more than enough on your plate but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I had sat idly by and allowed it."

"Indeed, thank you," Shaw said stiffly, in a tone that suggested that he wanted her to leave.

Marie turned and shuffled away. Shaw watched her go, his eyes cold.

"Nosy old bag," Sherlock heard him breathe as soon as she was gone.

He turned back to the alley, staring intently up at the opened window with his eyes slightly narrowed. He took a step forward, his eyes snapping towards the shrubs John and Sherlock were concealed in.

John gasped, certain that he would have seen them but he didn't call out or make any sign that he knew they were there. He just stared.

John felt Sherlock's hands on his wrists. "What are you doing!" he spluttered, as he was yanked around to face Sherlock.

"Any minute, he is going to come over and look in these bushes," Sherlock hissed, his eyes fixed on John's. "He knows we're here. But he doesn't know who we are yet."

"What?" John said, taken aback. "How do you know?"

"In a moment he is going to find us and he will know that we were the ones who broke into the house," Sherlock was speaking so quietly that John could only just hear him. "He's coming."

John's eyes widened. "What-

Through the gap in the branches Sherlock could see him coming closer, his eyes fixed on the trees.

Sherlock looked at John; he was staring up at him with widened eyes. Sherlock gripped his shoulders and John jerked in surprise.

"What are you doing?" he breathed.

"John, I'm going to kiss you," Sherlock said steadily, deciding that fair warning was due. "Don't struggle and do everything I ask unless you want to be arrested."

Before John could protest, Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's collar and yanked him into a rough and slightly painful kiss. Their mouths collided against each other just as Sherlock heard the crunch of the leaves beneath Shaw's shoes.

Sherlock could barely savour the sensation of John's mouth against his. He was listening for Shaw. He was vaguely aware of John's soft, damp lips but he didn't dare let himself relax into the kiss. This was a ruse, nothing else.

"Who's there?" came Shaw's sharp voice.

John broke away with a gasp. "_Sherlock_!" He spluttered, his face glowing.

"I know you're in there!" Shaw was close now. He was barely inches away from them. "Come out and face me, coward!"

Sherlock saw a flash of Shaw's business suit through the branches. "Moan," he hissed into John's ear.

John pulled back from him, looking confused beyond belief. "_What_?"

"Unless you want to have to explain why we were dropping out of the Shaws' bedroom window... _moan_," Sherlock said harshly.

John blinked, his jaw slackening slightly. "I don't under-"

"Oh for God's sake." Sherlock snapped. He really hadn't wanted it to come to this but sometimes being a detective meant doing things that one may later regret.

Raising his eyes up to the treetops above them so he wouldn't have to see John's reaction, he slid his hand down the front of John's trousers and rubbed. Hard.

He felt John grip his shirt. "Sher-Sher-_ Ugh-"_

Sherlock sighed. That would do it.

He heard Mr. Shaw stop short where he was. He could almost sense the embarrassed blush crawling across his features.

"Oh!" he burst out. "I'm so... I'm so sorry." Sherlock heard him back out of the trees and hurriedly turn away.

When he had disappeared back around the house, Sherlock calmly slid his hand out of John's trousers.

"There we go," he said coolly, stepping out of the bushes.

John didn't move.

Sherlock turned to him. "Coming?"

"Sherlock..." John said, still not moving.

"Yes?" Sherlock said blandly.

John pushed his way out of the trees. His hair was full of leaves and his cheeks were brightly flushed.

"What... what was that?" John asked, sounding dumbfounded.

"You have leaves in your hair," Sherlock said quietly.

John didn't seem to hear him. "I... You..."

"We have to leave," Sherlock said, turning on his heel. "Ms Finch is waiting for us."

John numbly followed, his mouth still stinging from the brutal kiss and something low down in his stomach throbbing dully.

TBC


	5. No Frills

A/N: See! Now it's the holidays I'm being lightning fast xD I've got a lot more time on my hands now so I should be able to get these chapters out pretty promptly. Can't believe it's almost Christmas D:

In this chapter we shall meet Georgette Finch. I usually avoid introducing OCs into fanfiction stories, because I don't want them to seem like they're just there to pander to my needs and then go away but it's pretty difficult to avoid OCs in fanfics centred around things like Sherlock where they are constantly meeting victims, criminals etc.

Enjoy :)

(Ooh and thank you again for reviewing/reading. V. much appreciated!)

Disclaimer: No.

_Chapter Five-_

The silence in the taxi was unbearable. John kept almost breaking it with some idle comment or joke but every time he brought the words to the tip of his tongue he lost his nerve.

Staring out of the window and pretending to be deep in thought was so much easier. Sherlock wasn't about to lessen the tension any time soon. He seemed to thrive on awkward, uncomfortable silences.

Sherlock probably didn't even care that they had just kissed. That he had just stuck his hand down John's trousers. He probably didn't find anything odd about it at all, it was just another of his 'methods'. He only cared about solving cases. Never mind who he might mentally scar in the process.

John touched his lips vaguely. They stung slightly. Sherlock's kiss had been so brutal; it had been clumsy. He seemed to use his teeth more than his lips. John could tell that his mouth was slightly swollen. He probably looked like he had walked headfirst into a beehive.

He saw Sherlock glance at him out of the corner of his eye. He thought John was sulking. Perhaps John was. He suddenly felt very... compromised. He hadn't wanted it but Sherlock had kissed him and touched him and he hadn't been able to do anything to stop it.

He finally looked at him. Sherlock turned his head to him. His expression was blank. He was impossible to read.

Now John had to say something. Sherlock was expecting it. John licked his lips slightly, feeling foolish. "You can't just go around kissing people."

God, he sounded so stupid. He sounded like a primary school teacher.

"You're not people," Sherlock replied blandly. "I didn't think you would mind."

"I don't..." John said, surprising himself. "I mean I do," he atoned quickly. "But..."

He searched fruitlessly for words.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, John," Sherlock said in a very measured way, as though he was speaking to someone with very unpredictable emotions. "I was simply improvising."

John exhaled heavily. He didn't know why he was getting so upset about this. Perhaps it was because he felt it was a bit unfair on Sarah. Perhaps it was because he hadn't been kissed in that manner for about seven years. Not even he and Sarah had kissed like that. They stole chaste little pecks but they hadn't really gotten to the point where they were slobbering all over each other like adolescents.

"John."

"Mmm?" John stared at his lap, still unable to label precisely it was he was feeling.

"I know that you may not be in the ideal mental state at present," Sherlock was speaking in a quick, quiet manner as though he knew John wouldn't like what he was saying, "And speaking to Ms Finch will be..." he paused, "difficult. It will require you to be on your guard."

John looked at him. "Look, I might not be a wit," he said testily, feeling a little annoyed that Sherlock had dodged his understandable discomfiture and was talking once more about Georgette Finch, "but I am not an idiot. I won't say anything to embarrass you."

"No, no," Sherlock said hurriedly, sitting forward in his seat slightly. "She's used to making people say what she wants them to say. She's a journalist, a novelist, a researcher and a ruthless gossipmonger. She will make you say something you don't mean. She'll pounce on any weakness she senses. You have to be on your guard. You have to say as little as possible and nothing that can be interpreted as anything more than what it is."

John felt a little bewildered by this advice. He suddenly felt it might be best if he didn't say anything at all. He wasn't precisely oafish when it came to conversation but he certainly could say stupid things. Sherlock said stupid things because he didn't care and made no effort to constrain his disdain or boredom or disinterest but he could summon absolute prudence and self-awareness when and if he needed it. John, being of average intelligence and not extensive social charisma, could make an idiot of himself as well as the next person.

"Maybe I should just wait outside," he mumbled, slouching in his chair.

"No, no you'll be fine," Sherlock said distractedly, craning his neck to get a better look at the street they were now hurtling down. "Driver! Here please."

As soon as they stepped down onto the pavement, John wanted to be back inside the safe silence of the taxi. He gathered the remains of his self-confidence and followed Sherlock up the path of her very neat, manicured lawn to a large red door in a mass of old-fashioned white stone.

Sherlock paused for one moment at the door, glancing wryly at John behind him and then knocked the door three times with the back of his knuckle.

John realised he seemed to have stopped breathing and forced himself to inhale and exhale deeply a few times. His mind was still back in Mr. Shaw's garden and he felt slightly smothered by the emotions in his chest.

As the door swung back on its hinges, John felt himself take a step back.

She looked exactly like she did in the magazines and the newspapers. She was an amply sized woman crammed into a very bright magenta two-piece. Her hair was bleached white-blonde and, though assumedly somewhere in her forties, her face was almost gravity defying and so shiny and wrinkleless that it looked like it had been carved out of plastic.

Which, John supposed, it probably had.

It hadn't stopped her from smearing a hefty amount of make-up on over the top however. Her eyes were almost swallowed by the mass of black kohl she had donned.

Her countenance did not change when she saw them.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said smoothly, looking him up and down with one brief glance. "You brought a friend, how nice. This way."

John glanced at Sherlock but his eyes were fixed on the back of Ms Finch's head. They followed her through the cloak room into a long, very cream hallway.

"You don't mind if we sit in the living room, do you?" she said, opening a door directly on the left. "The kitchen is being repainted and I'm afraid the parlour is barely fit to be seen until Mary comes to clean on Friday."

John stared at her. She seemed so controlled, so calm even though her daughter had died barely two days prior in such hideous circumstances.

She stood back for them to go in. John suddenly felt very awkward and ungainly walking past her, he felt like she was judging everything about him and would use it to colour some unflattering character in one of her books.

"Sit down."

The door snapped shut. John jerked slightly in surprise.

She looked at him with a small laugh. "Your friend is a bit jumpy, isn't he?" She walked across to a chaise-longue along the far wall and sat down, crossing her legs primly.

There was a massive flat-screen television against the back wall that seemed rather at odds with the handsome, old-fashioned furniture and decoration that otherwise dominated the room.

"There's no need to be nervous, dear." She patted the seat beside her and John saw Sherlock look at him in a way that told him to do as he was told.

John forced an unconvincing laugh and sat awkwardly next to her.

Sherlock sat in an armchair opposite, seeming irritatingly at his ease as he peered with mild interest about the room. "You have a lovely house, Ms Finch."

He was making small talk. He really was insufferable. John narrowed his eyes at him, trying to relax on the sofa and make his posture a little less obviously discontent.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes and please," she smiled, showing two rows of very white teeth and one gold filling, "call me Georgette."

"Excuse me," John said, feeling like a child who was interrupting the grownups' talk, "but how do you two know each other?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes and I have run into each other now and again," she replied, staring at Sherlock with a knowing look. "I keep asking him to allow me to write an article about his... inspiring work but he, most unexplainably, declines."

Sherlock laughed and John stared at him. It was almost unnatural to hear Sherlock laugh. "Well, if I'm not mistaken you've not let that stop you from writing about me on several different occasions."

There was no bitterness, no accusation to his tone but there was something pointed about his words.

"Well, you're such an interesting and elusive figure..." Ms Finch arched one very thin eyebrow, "people find that rather... alluring."

John felt his stomach drop. She was flirting. She was flirting with Sherlock.

He looked quickly at Sherlock. And Sherlock wasn't precisely discouraging her! Sitting there all compliments and fake laughs and acquiescence.

"And who is this?"

John felt a taloned hand pat his knee.

"John Watson," he said hurriedly, sticking out a hand.

She shook it, with the slightest smile on her lips as though she knew something that he didn't. "He's very handsome," she said, glancing at Sherlock.

John tried to refrain from blushing.

Across from him Sherlock, for the first time, seemed to falter slightly. John saw it and tried to wade in:

"I'm his friend-

At the precise moment Sherlock said: "he's my partner."

They looked at each other. Ms Finch laughed her trilling laugh. "Partner?"

"Associate," John and Sherlock said in unison.

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Watson," She said, turning her eyes back on Sherlock. "And I'm glad you've come. I've felt very much shut out from everything. They won't tell me anything."

Sherlock seemed to gather himself back together. He straightened up, his expression grave. "Have the police not spoken to you?"

"Well, no," she replied. "I don't suppose they thought it was necessary. Me and Jo..." she paused, "well, we hadn't spoken in a very long time."

"Why?" Sherlock said, thoroughly back in detective mode now.

"Well, she always seemed to have some bone to pick with me, but I think that lately she had taken a dislike to my methods of research," Ms Finch said calmly. "I believe that a hands-on approach is often needed, Mr. Holmes. You would surely agree, being a detective. You learn nothing from pure research."

"I have heard more than a little concerning your _particular_ strand of method-writing," Sherlock replied archly. "You've upset a lot of people, Ms Finch. A lot of powerful people. Don't you think that that might have played a part in her death?"

It was the first time Sherlock had strayed back into his old manner, John glanced at him.

"You would have to speak to them," she said coolly, seemingly unfazed by his assertion. "The only trouble I have had on that front is more lawsuits than Mcdonald's and Woolworthes put together."

"What do you think of her husband?" Sherlock went on, without hesitation. "Mr. Shaw?"

"He's an intelligent, confident, independent, business-savvy man, Mr. Holmes." She sat back in her seat, looking thoughtful. "I think he loved Joana."

"You think?" Sherlock said sharply.

"Well," she said, tilting her head to one side. "He was controlling. He was so often out of town and Jo was always very free-spirited. Tom was always just a little bit... uptight."

John couldn't help shifting in his seat at the sound of Thomas Shaw's name. The experience of dropping out of his bedroom window and hiding his garden was still raw in his mind. Thankfully, he seemed to escape the notice of Ms Finch who was very much focused on Sherlock.

"He used to get angry with her," Ms Finch said gravely.

"How angry?" Sherlock asked, studying her face closely.

Ms Finch was silent for a moment. "I'm sure he has a perfect alibi, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly at length.

There was a brief silence. John savoured her words and the unmistakeable meaning behind them. When they had met Thomas Shaw he hadn't seemed the sort of man to kill his wife in such a manner. Not because he wasn't capable of it, but because he seemed too meticulous to botch it so obviously and make up an alibi which could be easily proved false. But perhaps John had misjudged him.

He glanced at Sherlock. It wouldn't be the first time.

Ms Finch was the first to break the silence. "Would you boys like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Or something a bit stronger?"

"No, I never drink whilst on a case," Sherlock replied shortly, not looking at her.

"Mr. Watson?" She turned to him with an indulgent smile.

"Oh, no... Thank you," John stammered. "Actually, could I just... use your bathroom?"

She smiled. "Of course. It's the first door on the right upstairs."

John nodded his head and hurriedly went out.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps disappear up the carpeted stairs. He knew Finch was watching him and he knew that he was more or less powerless to quell the questions which would soon follow.

"I'm so pleased for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced at her. "What do you mean?"

"Finally finding someone who doesn't recoil at your inability to show emotion and your total disregard for human life," she said sweetly, "someone who is actually stupid enough to think that they might be the one who will unlock your frosty, shrivelled little heart."

"Who? John?" Sherlock said, choosing not to understand her meaning.

"Yes," she said, with a spiteful little smile on her lips. "Big blue Bambi eyes. Awkward, bumbling manners. Probably doesn't have two brain cells to rub together. I never thought that _that _would be your type but I must say that you have surprised me."

Sherlock looked at her, his mouth twitching slightly. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him even though he could feel the irritation rising like lava through him.

"I mean perhaps as an easy lay but... really," she gave a humourless laugh. "I would have thought you would like something a little more challenging than that."

"John isn't my... whatever you think he is," Sherlock replied coolly. "And if by "challenging" you mean being victimized by a poison spitting viper like you then I would take a Bambi-eyed idiot any day."

"Oh, so you haven't fucked him yet?" she mused. "But you want to. I can see it. You want to bend that little blonde chew toy over and-

"As you have so eloquently stated in all of your many articles concerning my complete list of personal failings," Sherlock cut in, determined not to let her get the upper hand though he could feel the heat rising to the surface of his cheeks, "I am not capable of sexual arousal or romantic interludes-

"Oh, my readers are very sympathetic to your cause, Mr. Holmes," Finch smirked. "It would be a _crime _to deprive them of a few morsels from your ever-interesting career."

"Your compassion is touching," Sherlock said flatly, "but I am fairly certain that my career does not extend to the fact that I apparently have erectile dysfunction and get off on wearing women's clothing."

Ms Finch pursed her lips. "Don't be so sensitive. I changed your name-"

"_Sheridan Hoss_," Sherlock replied. "Yes, very subtle and you don't think that someone might become suspicious when you include a photo of Baker Street and describe him as _'the incredibly famous and talented detective, known for his close work with the police and reclusive lifestyle'._ You don't think that someone _might _put two and two together?"

Ms Finch remained unmoved. "I did everything in my power to protect your identity, Mr. Holmes," she said serenely. "If you have a concern, feel free to get in line." She glanced at the door. "And what about your friend? What does he like? Does he have a thing for women's underwear? Does he like being spanked? Tied up? _Burned?_"

Sherlock felt an inexplicable swoop of anger. "Don't you dare tar him with the same brush as me," he said sharply. "He's done nothing to you, he's warranted none of your attention."

"Oh, but it's so _readable _to hear about how the kooky, sterilized antics of Sherlock Holmes are finally tamed by _John Watson_. Doesn't he just sound the good old English bloke? No frills. No pretentions. Watches Eastenders, likes his meat and two vege. He might he as boring as drying paint on the surface but who knows what he likes in the bedroom-"

"Shut up," Sherlock spat.

Ms Finch raised an eyebrow with a small, sneering smile. "Did I touch a nerve?"

"He's a doctor," Sherlock said furiously, his fists clenched very hard. "He served in Afghanistan. He might not live up to your mighty expectations but he-"

Ms Finch simpered, cutting in with: "And where precisely did he get that lovely case of... shall we say, pash rash?"

Sherlock stopped short. He'd said too much. He'd played right into her hands. Why hadn't he just shut up?

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes," she said, recrossing her legs and waggling a shiny black stiletto at him. "I will find out. I look forward to my cosy little chat with Doctor Watson-

Sherlock furiously opened his mouth just as footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. He closed his mouth, glaring at Georgette Finch with a loathing that he wasn't sure he would be able to hide.

"Ah, _Doctor _Watson," Ms Finch said brightly as he entered. "I trust you found your way alright."

John appeared beside him, still looking vaguely ruffled. Sherlock glanced at his lips. They didn't look red to him anymore, though there was a tiny cut on the corner of his mouth that Sherlock hadn't noticed before.

John sat back down on the sofa next to Georgette Finch, completely oblivious to what had passed in the five or six minutes he'd been gone.

"Was there anything else you'd like to ask me, Mr. Holmes?" Ms Finch said with a wide smile, as she stretched her arm out on the back of the chaise-lounge behind John's unknowing head.

Sherlock saw that he had been defeated for today. He would have to come back another. "Yes," he said, standing. "I'll contact you if we need anything more from you."

"Please do," Georgette Finch said sweetly, patting John's knee with her long, polished talons. "It was lovely to meet you, Doctor Watson."

"Ah... yes, you too. Thanks," John said awkwardly, nodding his head to her and scrambling upright out of his seat.

"We'll see ourselves out," Sherlock said over his shoulder as he disappeared back out into the hallway.

John followed him, not quite able to believe his luck in being freed from her company so quickly.

"Doctor Watson,"

He stopped short at the door, turning back to her.

She was watching him, all at once kindly and calculating. "Do feel free to call me any time, Doctor Watson. If there's anything at all you wish to speak about," she smiled. "Money is no object."

John blinked, completely taken aback. He stared at her heavily painted face, wondering if he had imagined those last words. He felt Sherlock's hand on his arm and he was tugged away from the door, still staring at her in a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"What did she mean _money is no object_?" he burst out to Sherlock as soon as they were safely out of her front door. "What the hell was she going on about?"

Sherlock looked at him archly. "She meant that if you wanted to divulge any dirty, kinky little secrets about what might occur in the darker corners of Baker Street she would be, by all means, listening."

John gaped at him. "No... She wouldn't have been so obvious about it-"

"Perhaps she was just testing you," Sherlock said, holding the gate open for John," She's," he smiled grimly, "seeing where your loyalties lie."

"And what was all this about her wanting an interview with you?" John demanded, not moving. "I thought you barely knew her."

"You can never meet a person and know them better than you know your closest friends," Sherlock said impatiently. "Can we please leave? I don't want to speak any further until we are far, far away from Ms Georgette Finch."

...

It was difficult for Sherlock to discount what Ms Finch had said. She might relish in a few spiteful, poisonous articles about him and his dysfunctional lifestyle but in a murder enquiry everything could be dangerous, everything could pose a risk to the case.

And John, he glanced at him opposite; she would adore sinking her claws into him. Using him to get to Sherlock and the entire police force.

Her tactics, a mix of guesswork and sensationalism could seem very like his own deductive abilities but he knew they were just smoke and mirrors. She could make people admit things to her and she could make up lies. He didn't consider these to be particularly noble abilities. Though she did have an uncanny ability to get what she wanted when she wanted with no consequences. That intrigued him against his will.

Sherlock wasn't unused to people making wild accusations about his personal life and his sexuality but she had hit closer to the mark than anyone else. She only said it to irritate him but she was right. Sherlock wanted to sleep with John.

Oh God. He had said it out loud. Well, thought it out loud. He had finally admitted it. Hormone imbalance or not, he couldn't ignore the feelings he felt towards John. He was attracted to him. It was impossible to label it anything else.

"She didn't seem so bad," John said as they reached Baker Street.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the back of John's head, following him out onto the pavement. "No, if you have a partiality to venomous snakes," he said darkly.

John looked at him in surprise. "She didn't seem that bad. I mean... a bit, well, weird but she was polite enough."

"She's a noxious witch," Sherlock said bluntly, going up the stairs.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's back. "Well, that's quite a change in opinion," he said, trying not to feel too pleased.

As soon as they were inside, Sherlock immediately snatched his phone out and began texting at the speed of light.

"What now?" John said, taken aback.

"I want another interview with Mr. Shaw," Sherlock replied shortly. "And I want to examine the body and get those glasses taken into forensics."

"You don't really think that Shaw killed her, do you?" John said dubiously, falling into the chair opposite.

Sherlock glanced at him. "If we said that about every obvious suspect we would never get any leads," he said archly.

John shrugged, feeling absently for his own phone. "Oh my God," he felt his other pocket. "I don't believe it!"

Sherlock did not look up.

"Sherlock, my phone is missing!" John sprung to his feet, patting the back of his jeans and staring vainly about the sofa. "God. I must have dropped it..." He felt his stomach swoop. "Sherlock, you don't think I would have dropped it at the Shaws' house, do you?"

Sherlock glanced at his horrified face. "Do you keep photos on your phone? Personal messages?"

John coloured slightly. "Not very personal messages."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It amazes me how anyone can be so careless with their belongings." He turned his attention back to his own phone.

John stared at him. "Sherlock! What if someone finds it! What if it's in Shaw's closet! They might think I killed her!"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then laughed. "Don't be so ridiculous."

John coloured. "What's so ridiculous about it? It's my phone. It's in the crime scene-"

"Because the police did, as you said, _comb_ the place," Sherlock said calmly, "and secondly I don't believe that anyone, even under Lestrade's guidance, could possibly suspect _you _of murder."

John narrowed his eyes at him. "And what precisely do you mean by that?"

"You're not the type," Sherlock said, his eyes sliding back down to his phone.

"Too stupid, too clumsy... _what_?" John demanded, suddenly feeling very sick of Sherlock's constant allusions to his apparent lack of intelligence. "I was a soldier. I am more capable than you seem to think."

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Why are you angry?"

"Why are you being such a... _wanker_?" John snapped, stomping around the chair and searching for his coat before remembering he still had it on.

"What have I said?" Sherlock said, looking genuinely surprised by the turn in John's behaviour.

"And you don't even give a damn that I've lost my phone!" John snapped, rounding on him. "That it could be anywhere! Giving information away to anyone!"

Sherlock sighed, standing up slowly as though he was trying to calm an angry little animal. "This isn't about your phone."

"Yes, it is," John said quickly, though he was not even entirely sure himself why he was suddenly so angry.

Sherlock came towards him, John backed away slightly, staring at him.

"Is it because I kissed you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes sharp.

John felt the wall behind him. "I'm sick of being treated like an imbecile," he said meekly, knowing it was fruitless to try and lie to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood opposite him, his eyes studying John's face carefully. "It was just a kiss, John. Why does it upset you so much?"

"Kissing someone isn't just something you can do lightly," John snapped, almost panting. "You just don't get it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Not everything has to be special, John. Not everything has to be emotional and special."

John blinked; Sherlock took a step closer to him. "Do you want me to prove it?"

John could only shake his head slightly. He felt Sherlock's hands grip his wrists very tightly and, staring up in dismay at Sherlock's pale, stony face, he felt his figure pin against him for the third time that day.

He managed to hiss, "Don't-"

And then his lips were claimed in a rough, angry kiss that hurt even more than the first one. It felt like his mouth was being plundered, being used for something dirty and cruel. He felt Sherlock's tongue touch his bruised bottom lip and gasped, managing to tear his mouth away.

"Get the hell off of me," he snarled, shoving Sherlock away.

Sherlock took a step back, breathing heavily. His stared at John, his expression unreadable.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" John spat, so angry that he could barely speak.

He turned on his heel, throwing the door open so roughly that it hit the wall and rebounded off it.

Mrs Hudson was on the stairs, staring at him with wide eyes.

"John! What on earth-"

John shook his head wordlessly at her and went down the stairs, having no idea of where he was going but not caring as long as it was far away from Baker Street.

TBC


	6. Rescuing

A/N: ONE MORE SLEEP STILL SMUTMAS D: In other words... the next chapter will contain pronz. I have allllll worked out xD

Ahhhh reviewers. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? For thou art more lovely and far less likely to give me skin cancer. Rocketh on.

NAO. LET'S DO THIS.

Disclaimer: Nup.

_Chapter Six-_

Sherlock stood motionless where he was, staring at the place where moments ago John had been pressed against the wall, his face upturned and his mouth torturously... obtainable.

He turned and went to the window. He stared in vain for a glimpse of blonde amongst the mass of black and brown below, but John did not appear. He had missed him, John would be long gone by now.

Sherlock walked calmly back to the sofa and sat down, holding his own phone limply in his hand. He probably should have felt something. Regret, embarrassment, anger, guilt but he felt numb. People told him that _he_ was the one who acted strangely but then they went and did the most unexplainable, mystifying things.

He was told that emotions were lovely, natural things that everyone should be gratified to possess but the emotions he felt made him do things which he knew were selfish and destructive. His emotions were uncomfortable and maddening. What was the point of feeling if it only served to highlight the fact that John was not his and would never be his?

He wanted John. He almost always got what he wanted, but not this time.

He sighed, pressing his forehead into his hands and trying desperately to think, to put this situation into an order he could understand.

John didn't understand or didn't believe Sherlock's logic. Sherlock saw the way he had reacted. He seemed to think that a kiss was some deep, unshakable bond. Sherlock definitely did not understand how the act of gnashing one's mouth against another person's was some deep expression of affection when really it was just a messy, hot, slightly painful display of unbridled arousal and his own inability to kiss. And there was a lot of saliva involved.

He touched his mouth absently. It was still damp. He didn't know whether it was sensual or disgusting to think that he now had John's spit smeared across his lips. He really didn't understand romance. It seemed to stray so closely to the obscene.

He didn't understand romance and he didn't understand John.

He sunk back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling. If he continued the way he was going, he may never have the chance to understand John. There were only so many times he could listen to John storm down the stairs of 221b with an expectation of his coming back.

...

John walked and walked and walked but the anger did not lessen. He didn't know where he was going but walking was better than just standing in the street and screaming until he was hoarse as he felt like doing.

He should have just gone back and punched Sherlock in the jaw. It would have served him right. He thought he had complete control of everyone around him, that because he was a genius it made him exempt from the law, from common decency, from every boundary.

John's lips stung. He could feel that there was blood on his top lip from where Sherlock had nipped a cut he had already made the first time he'd kissed him. Sherlock couldn't kiss. It may have been the least important factor in the entire situation but it was obvious. He just seemed to consider kissing as the collision of two mouths against each other without the slightest thought to what a kiss was meant to be about-

John exhaled furiously, shaking his head to himself as he turned into Oxford Street. This was not what he should have been thinking about. The pure and simple fact was that Sherlock had taken a liberty. He had kissed John when John had told him not to. He knew John was with Sarah, he knew John wasn't interested in him that way.

Though in saying that, Sherlock himself didn't seem to see what he had done as anything sexual or romantic. He had kissed John to prove a point. To prove his indifference.

Well, he had certainly done that. John was more than aware of where he stood with Sherlock now.

He finally stopped. He had reached Hyde Park.

He sat down on a vacant bench, sighing tiredly. The edge of his anger had been whittled down slightly and he was beginning to feel the first pangs of embarrassment that often followed an outburst like his. He wasn't accustomed to throwing tantrums. Perhaps he had overreacted-

_No_, he thought firmly to himself. No, he _hadn't_ overreacted. Sherlock had been out of line. John's anger was justified.

And he was not going back to Baker Street. He needed some time away from Sherlock.

He seemed to say that at least every few days. Sometimes he would just find the nearest pub and stay there for an hour or two until he was well enough plastered that he could face Sherlock without wanting to hurt him. Other times he found himself at Sarah's place, trying to keep his mind brooding endlessly on Sherlock while he sat with her.

She probably didn't understand why John stayed. John wasn't always entirely sure of why he stayed, and when Sherlock did things like this the reason became even cloudier.

He ran a finger over his bruised and battered lips. He hadn't been kissed like that since school. At least Sherlock hadn't stuck his tongue in his mouth this time. John probably would have bitten it off if he had.

He could taste Sherlock. Sherlock's own unique scent. It was almost musty but mixed with some sort of vague perfume. Perhaps all weirdos smelt like that; like rosewater.

John wondered what he tasted like. Probably some nondescript mixture of toothpaste and after-shave.

But where was he going to go? He could go to the pub and get drunk, he could go to Sarah's and pretend that he wasn't thinking about Sherlock. Or he could go and find his phone.

There really was no argument. He had to find his phone. He wouldn't feel easy until he did.

He stood up. But where did he start?

It could have fallen out in one of the taxis. It could be lying in the street near Shaw's house. It could be _in _Shaw's house.

Or...

John cringed. It could be in Georgette Finch's house.

...

John stared out of the taxi window at the tall slab of white that was Finch's house. He didn't move. He wasn't sure whether he should have called ahead or something. Perhaps she only saw people by appointment.

She'd probably kick him out. He wasn't Sherlock. He wasn't famous or... alluring.

But he had to find it and this was as good as anywhere to start with.

He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the footpath, glancing up and down the quiet street. Well, at least if she did tell him to go away there'd be no one to witness it.

He knocked on her door and waited, his heart beating slightly faster than usual. He really hadn't wanted to face her again for a good long while but he was hoping he could just ask her if she had his phone and then leave. Though there was a part of him that deeply doubted that it would be that easy.

The door opened and John immediately forgot everything he was supposed to be asking.

If she was surprised to see him again she didn't show it. She looked him up and down with a wide smile on her wet, plump lips. "Doctor Watson! Back so soon?"

John gaped at her, the words bubbling in a confused mass in his head. "Yes," he managed to splutter at length while she raised her over plucked eyebrows expectantly at him. "I'm s-sorry. I- ah... don't mean to intrude. I just- I think I left my mobile here."

He resisted the urge to just turn and walk back to the taxi. He had successfully made himself look like a tongue-tied teenager.

"Oh, well feel free to have a look around," Ms Finch said, standing back from the door. "I haven't seen it about but it could be hiding here somewhere."

John really didn't want to go in but felt he could hardly refuse. He stepped awkwardly inside, wondering when he had become quite this inept.

The door closed behind him and he felt an uncomfortable sense of being trapped.

"Feel free to go upstairs and check the bathroom," Ms Finch said briskly, walking smartly past him on her tottery high heels. "I'll have a look in the sitting room for you."

She disappeared through the door on the left. John went tentatively upstairs, treading carefully on her very clean stairs.

He didn't expect to find it in the bathroom and just as he had predicted it was nowhere to be seen amongst the mass of white tile. He was sure he would have noticed if it had fallen out here.

He went back downstairs and found Ms Finch in the living room searching behind the cushions of the chaise-longue.

"I didn't find it," John said awkwardly, hovering by the door and wanting very much to leave. "But thank you anyway."

"Oh! That's a shame," Ms Finch said, turning to him with a puzzled frown. "I'm sorry about that, Doctor Watson."

"Please, call me John," John said hurriedly, cringing a little every time he heard her say 'Doctor Watson' in her sugary, sing-song way.

"John," she smiled, sitting on the edge of the chaise-longue and tucking her patent leather stilettos daintily underneath. "And where did Sherlock get to? Was he too busy to come with you?"

John thinned his lips. "He's always too busy when on a case."

"What a shame," Ms Finch said patronizingly. "I've known Sherlock for a while now. Well, in a distant sort of way. He dips in and out of the spotlight. I've never known him to ever have any romantic relations of any kind. You must be very special to have caught his eye."

John blinked. "Romantic...? No, no, no, no, no," he said hastily. "_No._ I'm not his... Ah. No. We're not... together. At all." He swallowed, feeling himself flush as she surveyed him in a slightly appraising manner.

She gave a delicate little laugh. "Of course you're not, dear." She smiled slyly.

John was taken aback. He'd known this woman five minutes and she was already making accusations of... Well, he didn't even know what. "Look," he said slowly, remembering what Sherlock had said about her, about how she twisted people's words and made them say things they didn't mean, "me and Sherlock are just friends. He doesn't seem to even... function sexually and I'm involved with someone. With a woman." He decided that that needed clarification.

Ms Finch raised her eyebrows. "Oh? How nice, dear. Who is she? Have you been together long?"

"Her name's Sarah," John said, glancing at the door. He really wanted to escape this line of questioning. "We've been together a few months. I'm sorry, I really should be going. Sherlock probably needs me for something." He inwardly cringed at how those last words might be perceived but decided it would be wiser not to say anything more.

"Of course. Well, I wish you all the happiness in the world, dear," Ms Finch said sweetly, crossing her legs and leaning back slightly in her seat. "Send Sherlock my love, won't you?"

John nodded, backing out of the room. "Thank you. Yes, I will. Sorry for the interruption. Bye."

He turned on his heel and hurried down the hallway and out the front door.

Being outside was like escaping from a dragon's cave. John didn't know why but he definitely did not like Ms Finch. He didn't quite understand why Sherlock had such a violent aversion to her but he certainly felt there was something vaguely unsettling about her unshifting smile.

He shivered slightly where he was.

Now he felt he had little choice but to check back at Shaw's house. If it was in there, and he had horrible feeling that it might, he was certain that it couldn't be wise to leave it there. Sherlock never had to know that he'd been there. He'd just have a quick look and if it was there then great and if it wasn't then at least he wasn't incriminating them both.

Decided, he caught a taxi to a house a few houses down from Thomas Shaw's and walked the rest of the way to avoid attracting too much attention. As he neared he could see that the front of the house was empty and Shaw's car was nowhere to be seen.

John stood in front of the stairs leading up to the front door. This was very risky. He felt like every neighbour in the street was watching him and getting ready to call the police.

He couldn't help thinking of Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't hesitate. Sherlock did everything with quiet confidence and perhaps more than a slight helping of arrogance. He never seemed to expect that anyone or anything would stand in his way.

John set his jaw. He was more than capable of doing this. He'd done far riskier things that this when he was at war. This was nothing.

He forced himself to walk forward. Without allowing himself to hesitate, he swung his legs over the side and slid down into the courtyard below.

He crouched down, waiting for a cry of 'hey, you!' from above him but none came. He barely dared to believe that he'd managed to avoid being seen. He waited, expecting every moment to hear a police car pull up but after ten minutes of almost total silence he decided it was safe.

The window was still broken. John slid his legs through.

"What am I doing?" he mumbled, holding tightly onto the sill of the window. "This is insane."

Taking a deep breath, he rolled onto his stomach and carefully lowered himself through the window. He let go of the sill and dropped down onto the concrete below with a dull thud.

He turned around, feeling a foolish glimmer of pride and part of him wishing that Sherlock could see how daring he was being without him.

Now there was no going back.

He glanced up at the window. Well, not without a serious struggle anyhow. The window was just high enough to be troublesome to a man of his stature.

He glanced around the rumpus room. It was given up mostly to storage. There was everything from boxes of photos to furniture to exercise equipment covered in cobwebs.

John made his way quietly across to the stairs, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. In his mind he made a mental map of his route. He'd go upstairs, check the bedroom and the closet, look down to where he and Sherlock had jumped out of the window, and if there was nothing he would go outside and check in the alley and the trees behind the house.

But unfortunately John soon realized that his plan had been foiled before it'd even been put into action. When he turned the knob of the rumpus room door, it didn't budge.

John stared at it, his mind for a moment blankly refusing to believe that it was locked. He turned it again and then a third time, somehow entertaining a hope that if he turned it enough times it would just magically unlock.

"Come _on_ you stupid door!" he snapped, rattling on it as hard as he could and giving it a kick for good measure.

Apart from almost fracturing his toe this achieved very little.

He turned and went back down the stairs.

"Bloody typical," he growled, going back across to the window.

He dragged the nearest storage box underneath it, hoping that it held his weight long enough for him to wiggle back through the window. He gingerly stood on it, half expecting it to collapse but it didn't.

He peered through the window and felt his stomach drop.

A car had just pulled up outside. He tried to entertain a hope that it was just the next door neighbour but he already knew exactly who it was and he didn't need the sight of Thomas Shaw's lower half on the stairs above the window to confirm it.

"Shit," John hissed, flattening himself against the wall.

He heard Shaw's key in the door just a bare metre above his head. John stared wide-eyed at the opposite wall, his mind not yet allowing him to comprehend just how much trouble he would be in if he was caught.

Above him, the floorboards creaked and John got the uncomfortable feeling that Shaw was almost directly above him.

He crouched down where he was, glancing at the pile of boxes nearby. If, for whatever incomprehensible reason, Shaw came downstairs into the rumpus room John could hide.

He couldn't help thinking that Shaw had locked the rumpus room door for a reason. Shaw knew they had been there.

...

Sherlock checked his phone again. Lestrade _still _hadn't responded.

"Bloody useless," Sherlock said crossly, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling. "Does he want this case solved or not?"

Though in his gut he knew it wasn't just Lestrade he was waiting for. Part of him, a very stupid part of him, wanted John to somehow contact him. He didn't know how. Payphone maybe, or perhaps he'd miraculously find his phone. Something which Sherlock found highly unlikely.

He also found it highly unlikely that he had lost it inside Shaw's house. Even John would have noticed a phone dropping out of his pocket. The most likely explanation was that it was lying in the back of a taxi somewhere.

But John being John he would probably spend the rest of the year agonizing over it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself. He really had to stop thinking about John. It was becoming ridiculous. He spent more time thinking about John than about the case he was supposed to be solving. Which he _was _solving. Which he _would _solve as soon as he could interview Shaw again and could examine the glass with the lipstick on it.

His phone went off beside him and he almost jumped out of his skin.

He hurriedly felt for it, pressing it to his ear. "John? I mean, hello?"

"Why hello, Mr. Holmes! And to think that half of me didn't even expect you to pick up."

Sherlock bolted upright. "Finch," he spat. "How the hell did you get this number?"

"Your boytoy gave it to me," she simpered. "Helpful little thing. He's cute, Sherlock. You should nail him down before he gets frightened away."

"What do you want, Finch?" Sherlock said furiously. "If you've just called to harass me then you can tell whatever it is to the police when I file a protection order against you."

"Oh come now," Finch said with an unaffected laugh. "We're both adults. There's no need for petty threats. I called out of the goodness of my heart to tell you that your friend's given me permission to write a piece about you for _What Weekly_."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said sharply. "John would never agree to that."

"Well, he did open up about a few interesting little facts," Finch replied, clearly enjoying herself. "And I take_ that_ as meaning that he doesn't mind if I... pass them along. He practically _begged_ me to publish something about him. Those bedroom eyes of his. Who could say no?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a furious pulse going through him. "Listen Finch. If you so much scrawl one _sentence _about him I'll-"

"So nice to speak to you, Sherlock! I look forward to seeing you again. Cheerio."

The line went dead.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, trying to filter the overwhelming anger out of his system but it was useless.

"Conniving little _viper_," he spat, flinging his phone across the sofa.

If there was one thing he did not need at present it was Georgette Finch publishing some purple prose about John.

Then again, he thought irritably, why the hell was John thinking going back to her house?

She could have been making it up but he doubted it. She sounded too gleeful. She had trapped John; she had made him say something stupid (though it was an admittedly uncomplicated feat) and now she was going to punish Sherlock by humiliating John.

Sherlock had to do something. He had to stop her publishing trash about John. He had to stop her from defaming them both. He had to stop her ruining Sherlock's chance with John.

Sherlock stared blankly at his phone. Well, it was a good thing that John never read women's magazines.

...

John's legs gave an achy twinge. He flattened down against the wall, the cold floor seeming to seep through his jeans. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there.

It seemed like an hour but it was probably no more than twenty minutes. John had always considered himself fairly patient but sitting in constant fear of being caught was starting to wear on his nerves.

He stood up and glanced up at the window above him. He severely doubted his own ability to climb out of the window. He severely doubted his own ability to remain in this rumpus room without going stir-crazy.

He stared around the rumpus room. His eyes fell on the dusty turn dial phone in the corner. He had been staring at it for the last hour (twenty minutes?), part of him knowing what a cleverer but less proud man would do.

He sighed, getting to his feet and treading very carefully and quietly over towards it. He couldn't hear anything from above but that didn't comfort him. Every moment he expected to hear the rumpus room door open behind him.

He grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear, part of him expecting it to be dead.

"Thank God," he breathed, the quiet 'brrrrrr' in his ear almost repairing some of his frayed nerves.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to swallow what was left of his dignity.

He opened them again and dialled the number. It rang once, twice, thrice and then-

"What do you want?"

John blinked. "Ah... hi."

There was silence.

John swallowed. "Are you there?"

"Yes." If Sherlock was surprised to hear him he hid it well. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

John cleared his throat. "Are you busy?"

"Why?" Sherlock sounded slightly suspicious.

John hesitated. "I think I might have done something... stupid."

"What?" Sherlock definitely sounded suspicious now. "John, where are you?" he asked sharply. "Where are you calling from?"

John licked his lips. "The Shaws' rumpus room."

There was an agonizing pause.

"John, you're an idiot."

"Thank you for illustrating that point," John said heatedly, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be avoiding detection. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock sounded infuriatingly blasé. "Just clear one little point up for me. You need me... to come and rescue you?"

"_Help me_," John said furiously. "I don't need rescuing!"

"Well, in that case..." He could practically sense the smirk on Sherlock's face. "I'm sure you'll work your way out eventually. Goodbye-"

"Wait!" John spluttered. "You can't just leave me here. What if I'm caught?"

"I thought you didn't need _rescuing_," Sherlock said silkily.

John snarled. "Fine. Fine, Sherlock. I need to be rescued. I am trapped in a rumpus room and I need you to come and rescue me. _So hurry the fuck up._"

He slammed the phone down, staring at it exasperatedly.

"Smug bastard," he muttered, sliding back down the wall and cupping his head in his hands.

He sat in silence, listening to Shaw's footsteps above him. He didn't quite know what he had expected Sherlock to do but he was sure that if anyone was able to help him it would be him.

Sure enough after about ten minutes he heard a mobile phone sound upstairs. He listened as hard as he could, immediately discounting it as his from the ringtone. The phone stopped ringing after three or four rings. He couldn't hear Shaw's voice but he was certain that he had picked it up.

A moment later, he heard hurried footsteps above him and the front door open.

Barely daring to believe his luck, he crept hurriedly to the window just in time to see Shaw's suited figure hurry down the stairs.

"Thank God," he sighed, hearing the car's engine sound.

He stepped back up on the box, resting his hands on the sill of the window and determining to somehow struggle his way out. It seemed a lot higher than he had previously thought.

"_John_."

John let out a cry of surprise and almost fell backwards off his box.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, staring up at the hem of his friend's unmistakeable trench coat. "What are you doing? He could be back at any moment!"

Sherlock knelt down, his face appearing through the window. "I doubt it," he said mildly. "Mr. Shaw has been called away on urgent business and won't be back for some time." His eyes glinted.

John shook his head at him. "One day you'll land us both into serious trouble."

"You do a fine job of that yourself," Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow. "What precisely were you thinking when you came here?"

"I thought my phone might be here," John replied quietly. He hesitated, glancing down at the windowsill to avoid Sherlock's sharp, knowing eyes. "I may have... ah... overreacted... slightly."

"Slightly," Sherlock said wryly. "But this may not be the best time or place for a reconciliation."

John nodded. "I better get out of here."

Sherlock held out a hand to him. John hesitated for half a moment and then accepted it, allowing himself to be tugged through the window on his stomach.

He hastily stumbled upright, wiping the dirt and leaves off his jumper. He found himself face to face with Sherlock. Well, face to collarbone. He glanced up, feeling himself blush.

He hastily took a step back.

"Ah... thanks," he said awkwardly, staring at Sherlock's coat buttons.

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said calmly. "We had best leave before we're caught. I don't know if pretending to fornicate in a bush will work a second time."

TBC!


	7. Cooking Sherry

A/N: My friends! I'm so sorry. I've had... argh. Baddddd week. I'm very sorry. I'm so unreliable. I promise the next chapter will be a lot quicker. This is a bit o' smut for you but there's much more to cum. Hoho aren't I witty? But yes. Dollymop bad. Reviewers good! Reviwers AMAZING. REVIEWERS RAVISHING. Ahem. Yes.

I'm sooooo in love with John right now. Well, Martin. I don't know why but I suddenly have LIGHTBULB moments and get random crushes on men who previously I had no interest in. But yes. He's such a cuuuuuuuute little hobbit.

Disclaimer: New. Sorreh.

_Chapter Seven-_

The case was moving slowly. Sherlock was concerned to find that he seemed to have less interest... less exuberance than ever before when it came to this particular murder. He knew why. It was because his every waking thought was being adulterated by a traitorous hope that he had a chance with John.

There was something between them, he could sense it. Something more than mutual acceptance or even mutual understanding. It was something... _heated_. Or perhaps Sherlock was just entertaining thoughts of the impossible.

"Sherlock,"

Sherlock looked up. Lestrade was staring at him, a small, questioning frown on his face.

"What?" Sherlock said, turning his attention back to Joana.

He had examined her body three times. He didn't know why. He had already gathered everything that could be gathered from a corpse: how she had died and when she had died. But not why. That was one thing that a corpse could not tell.

Somehow he found himself constantly looking for more from her, looking for an answer from her. As though she might open her mouth and give it to him. Tell him why she was killed.

"I can't help thinking that you seem a little... shall we say, _distracted_ as of late?" Lestrade said pointedly, frowning at Sherlock as he bent down to stare at the bruises still lining Joana's neck. "You don't seem to have made much progress."

Sherlock looked up quickly. "Well, if the inept simpletons under your command had not lost vital evidence then perhaps we would have made some _progress_," he retorted, stepping back from the body and peeling off his gloves.

"I've told you a thousand times," Lestrade said through gritted teeth. "We didn't _touch _those glasses. We looked over the house from top to bottom. There was nothing," he paused, "and may I point out that breaking into a crime scene isn't exactly a legitimate form of gathering evidence in the first place!"

"If your men had done their jobs properly then maybe I wouldn't have had to go back there _in the first place_," Sherlock said coldly.

There was a brief silence.

"Perhaps they had nothing to do with it," Lestrade said at length. "Perhaps they were just dirty glasses that she hadn't had time to get around to taking downstairs."

"Rubbish," Sherlock said sharply. "Someone moved those glasses because they knew that it would incriminate the murderer. And we both know who that person was."

"He has an alibi, Sherlock," Lestrade said in a low voice, rubbing his face tiredly with his hands. "A rock solid alibi. You can't get more legitimate than thirty business executives all claiming they saw Thomas Shaw in Portsmouth at the same time that Joana was being strung up by her neck."

"I wasn't suggesting that he was the murderer," Sherlock replied, "but he got rid of those glasses for a reason and I would quite like to know why."

Lestrade exhaled heavily. "Why don't you interview him again then?"

"I don't have time to listen to him lie through his teeth," Sherlock snapped. "I want evidence. Enough evidence that he tells me the truth."

"It doesn't make any sense, Sherlock," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "You say it couldn't be professional, that no professional would botch it like that but whoever did it sure knew how to handle a rope. Why would she be drinking wine with someone like that?"

Sherlock looked up sharply, a jolt of electricity running through him at high speed. "Lestrade," he said, staring at him. "Lestrade! That's it. That's it. That could very well be it!" He strode over to him, grasping his hand briefly. "Sometimes you are brilliant."

He strode out, leaving Lestrade to stare after him in bewilderment.

"What is wrong with him lately?" he shot at Molly as she came through the door.

Of late she had taken to disappearing mysteriously every time Sherlock made his calls.

"Apart from being completely in love with John Watson?" she said bitterly. "Nothing."

Lestrade stared at her as she went across to Joana's body. "You'd think her husband would want her body back by now," she said.

"Yes, well. People grieve in different ways, don't they?" Lestrade said gruffly, buttoning his coat. "Bloody Sherlock. Like a bloody teenage girl."

He stalked out of the room, muttering ill-temperedly.

...

John didn't know when work had ever been less satisfying. People's maladies: colds, sore throats, chicken pox, glandular fever, stomach cramps seemed increasingly designed to frustrate him out of his mind.

Apparently Sherlock didn't need his help anymore. Sherlock didn't _want _his help anymore. So when Sherlock went out to do... whatever it was he did, John stayed home and did paperwork or watched television. He still didn't have a new phone, half of him was still preserving a hope that his old phone would turn up.

Since Sherlock had 'rescued' him, things had become different between them. John felt it. He couldn't help thinking that it was his fault. Perhaps he had gotten himself into a scrape one too many times. There was a tension between them that he couldn't account for.

He leant back in his chair, gnawing absently on the end of his biro. If there was one good thing about being a general practitioner it was all the privacy it afforded him between patients. He had plenty of time to brood. He glanced down at his list of appointments.

Just one more patient and he was free. He just had to try and get through the appointment without yawning.

He wished he could work up the courage to ask Sherlock what the hell was wrong. He wished that he didn't feel as though he was unwanted. He wished that he didn't feel so consistently bored when he was at work. Perhaps it was inevitable that life after the war would seem uneventful but he couldn't keep from feeling like he was an ungrateful bastard for feeling so uninspired.

His brooding was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said, massaging his temples in a vain attempt to relieve the vague, persistent throbbing in his head.

"Sorry to interrupt,"

John looked up quickly. "Sarah, hi! No it's fine. Sorry I was just about to call my last patient."

"That's alright," Sarah said, closing the door behind her and glancing around the office as though she hadn't seen it dozens of times before. "She's running a little late anyway."

"Ah, alright," John said.

There was a brief silence. John tried to think of something to say but his mind was stubbornly refusing to shift into anything resembling intelligent thought.

"I thought maybe we could go for a drink tonight," Sarah said finally, when it was clear that John wasn't going to speak. "We haven't really been seeing that much of each other lately."

John sensed that she wanted to add something to that but she seemed to catch herself.

"Oh yeah sure," John said, though he had been thinking hopefully of getting home early enough to try and bully Sherlock into letting him go out with him tonight. "Sounds great."

Sarah smiled, though John noticed that it seemed terse. Almost forced. "Anywhere in particular you'd like to go?"

"No, wherever's fine. Doesn't matter," John replied hastily, shuffling some papers on his desk and quickly hiding his biro underneath so she didn't see the sets of teeth marks covering most of it.

Sarah nodded and opened the door to leave.

"Are you alright?" John asked hurriedly, feeling a rush of guilt.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, but John couldn't help noticing that she barely met his eye. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

She left, closing the door behind her. John sat back in his chair, letting the wave of anxieties wash over him. It was impossible to shut them away.

"Oh, shut up," he hissed, kneading his forehead with his hands. "Stop thinking for once in your life."

There were often periods of time when Sarah and John saw very little of each other. Sarah was occupied with work, John was occupied with Sherlock but they had always had time for each other between that. Drinks after work, texts, dates but for two weeks they had seen nothing of each other outside of work and even then they barely had a moment to speak.

John had the uncomfortable feeling that he had grown bored of her. He had been trying to fight it in the past few weeks but it grew nonetheless, silent and poisonous. He hadn't been in a relationship for a long time. Perhaps he had forgotten how to conduct himself within one.

Well, at least he had an excuse to get drunk tonight now.

He fished his pen out from under the pile of paperwork and stuck it in his mouth again. Well, everyone needed their little indulgences.

...

"She was involved, wasn't she?"

Ms Finch never looked surprised. Perhaps it was the amount of plastic surgery she'd undergone or the permanent arch of her eyebrows but she somehow achieved to maintain the same expression.

She looked him up and down, the only visible sign that she was at all taken aback by the sight of Sherlock Holmes on her doorstep the slightly increased elevation of one eyebrow above the other. "Mr. Holmes, what a nice surprise. I can't say that I remember receiving a call to say you were coming-"

"She was involved," Sherlock said brusquely, pushing past her into the house.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock turned to her, narrowing his eyes at her painted face. "Your daughter was helping you, wasn't she? She was getting information for you."

Finch stared at him, looking as though she was inwardly deciding whether or not to deny it. "How did-"

"That's not important," Sherlock said, turning away to hide his triumphant smile. "It wasn't the articles that upset people."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Finch said coolly. "Are you staying? May I close my front door or do you like to be able to just swoop in and out of people's houses like an oversized bird of prey?"

"Yes, close it," Sherlock said, not looking at her. "We don't want the neighbours overhearing, do we?"

He strode into the sitting room, his mind bubbling with an excitement he hadn't felt in weeks. He stared at the chaise-longue where John and Finch had sat a couple of weeks ago.

"I was beginning to miss our cosy little chats, Mr. Holmes,"

Finch walked past him and took her usual place on the chaise-longue. Today she was wearing a frilly, puce dress and another pair of a seemingly endless supply of patent leather pumps. She crossed her legs in an almost challenging fashion, raising her eyebrows expectantly at him.

Sherlock stood behind the chair opposite. "Where do you get your information, Finch?"

"_Finch_?" she replied, raising her eyebrows. "My, my. We are in a testy mood today-"

"Where do you get the information that gets all those people so angry?" Sherlock said loudly. "It wasn't through interviews, that's for sure."

Finch stared at him coolly.

"Your daughter didn't like your methods, did she? You said so yourself that first day we came here."

Sherlock stared hard at her, examining every line of her face. It was like he was knocking his head against a brick wall when he tried to read her. She gave nothing away. Every movement, every word, every turn of her head was measured and had a purpose. She betrayed nothing.

At length Finch laughed; a small and very cold laugh. "How very perceptive of you, Sherlock," she replied, leaning a hand over the arm of the chaise-longue to a small table beside it. There was an old-fashioned silver cigarette case lying on it that Sherlock hadn't noticed before.

He realized too late that he was staring at it. He looked away quickly but he knew that Finch had seen. If he couldn't read her, he was certainly giving her too many opportunities to read him.

She smirked slightly. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you? I always have, you know but I try to give up now and again." Sherlock watched as she took a cigarette from the box, holding it between two long, frosted pink nails. "I feel that I should at least pretend to give up, I'm told it's the moral thing." She lit it with a lighter from her jacket pocket.

Sherlock looked away as she took a drag. He didn't want to see that glorious cigarette pushed unceremoniously between her misshapen purple lips. He absently touched the place on his arm where the nicotine patch would have been if he could ever remember to pick them up from the chemist.

The smell of smoke filled the room almost immediately. "You were saying?" Finch said calmly and Sherlock felt, if possible, that he hated her even more at that moment. She must have known how much it was torturing him, that cigarette. God, he wanted one.

He gave himself a mental shake and forced himself to look at her while she billowed smoke like the dragon she was. He tried to speak but the words became stuck in his throat.

"How did you get your information?" he said quietly.

Finch cleared her throat, tapping the ash from her cigarette onto the table beside her. "My journalism-"

Sherlock snorted.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "My journalism," she said again, "while dear to me, has always taken a secondary role to my fiction." She waved a hand absently at the bookshelf opposite. "Eight novels. All bestsellers. Though I have to say that the critics were less than indulgent-"

"I'll bet," Sherlock said sourly, walking over to the bookcase and casting his eye along the small collection of books.

On the top shelf there was a row of very shiny magenta spines, all embellished with the same words in flourishing scrawl: _Georgette Finch_. He picked one out at random.

"_Sweet Sixteen_, the story of a well-to-do politician who has sex with the hired help while his daughter's birthday party is going on downstairs," Sherlock said, turning the garish book over in his hands. "Very imaginative." He turned back to Finch, she looked unmoved.

"Your point being?" she said. "Sex sells, Mr. Holmes. You don't understand that of course. But most normal, functioning members of society _do_."

Sherlock ignored her. "I can't help but notice that the story sounds suspiciously akin to that of the Labor MP who earlier this year divorced his wife after certain insalubrious details concerning his affair with their children's nanny came to light," Sherlock replied coldly. "Sound familiar?"

"Yes, well everyone takes inspiration from somewhere," Finch retorted, taking a defiant drag of her cigarette. "Why not the news? It doesn't belong to anyone."

"No," Sherlock snapped, shoving the book back onto the shelf. "But you didn't stop there, did you?" he yanked another book off the shelf, staring at the cover. "This one: _Behind Closed Doors. _It was an almost uncanny prediction of Terry Kirk's fall from grace after it was revealed that his lofty ideas on the sanctity of marriage didn't extend to his own marriage and his liking for prostitutes."

"It's very sweet that you've taken it upon yourself to study my work in such detail," Finch replied mildly. "Do you want me to autograph something for you?"

"You aired other people's dirty laundry where everyone could see it and you didn't make even the slightest attempt to protect their identity," Sherlock said. "You used your daughter to humiliate people."

He strode over to her, throwing the book down onto the seat beside her. "Before anyone else broke the story you already had it immortalized in paper and ink. The juicier, the more depraved the storyline the more people flocked to your books and the greater the humiliation to whoever was represented. It was so obviously slander that I'm not surprised that they saw it as more worth their while to try and sue you than to protect the remains of their ruined reputation."

He broke off, finding himself slightly out of breath.

Finch remained unaffected. "None of those cases were found to be anything more than an attempt to defame me for money," she replied, smoke bursting from her lips with every word.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "Ms Finch, if you have any desire at all to find who murdered your daughter, then you will at least be honest with me," he said icily.

He went back to the armchair and sat down, watching her carefully for any sign that she wasn't completely devoid of emotion.

He felt a slight pang in his stomach in spite of himself. There was that word again: emotion.

Finch sighed, grinding her cigarette into the table and leaving it there in a mess of ash. She dusted her fingers off and lay back on the chaise-longue with a sigh. "Poor Joana."

"She was working for you, wasn't she?" Sherlock said harshly. "You were using her to get information on the people you wanted." He wanted her to tell him he was right. He knew he was, but the harder he pushed her, the more she seemed to resist his attempts to interrogate her.

"Why would Joana listen to me?" Finch demanded. "She made no secret of her feelings towards me."

"Because you paid her to do your dirty work," Sherlock spat, unable to contain his irritation. "You paid her a lot of money. You're a rich woman, you're a powerful woman. You could afford to pay her a grand a night just to flirt with some small-time idiot celebrity and see what nasties were lurking in his closet. She was very pretty, she was very young. It was almost too easy."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Finch replied. "I wonder what _nasties _you have hidden in your closet, Mr. Holmes?"

There was silence. Sherlock stared hard at her, wanting so deeply to see what was going on beyond that ugly, painted facade of hers. It was impossible. She was a trained liar.

"Alright," he said, standing, "keep your secrets. I'll require a list of every person you've written about, interviewed or otherwise defamed in the last year. One of them killed your daughter, Finch. Even you must have a shred of desire within you to see them brought to justice."

He moved to leave.

"Did you read my little article?" she said loudly as he was at the door.

He turned to her. "I can't say that I felt the inclination to read it," he replied shortly.

"That's a shame," she said offhandedly, rolling the used cigarette between her fingers. "I said lots of nice things about your companion. I like him, Sherlock. I can see why you do too."

"You know this is all a journalist's fantasy you've cooked up," Sherlock replied. "John is not my lover."

"You want him to be," Finch said archly.

Sherlock scoffed. "You're a counsellor now? Don't try and analyse me, like you know the first thing about me."

Finch smirked. "Oh but do let me_ try_," she paused, her eyes roaming briefly over his face. "Everyone says you're very deep and complicated, Sherlock but I can see just what you are. You're a repressed homosexual who wants nothing more than to be fucked by John Watson."

Sherlock, for the first time in a long career, was taken aback. He gaped at her, feeling the heat rise to the surface of his body.

Before he could find the words to rebuff her, she had continued: "If you were to do a very small favour for me I would of course agree never to write another article about your friend. I think that's a very fair price."

"John doesn't read your trash," Sherlock spat, finding his voice at last. "He's not in the habit of reading _What Weekly_."

"Oh I can aim much lower than that, Mr. Holmes," Finch said softly, her eyes very cold. "You would be surprised how interested people can be in a good scandal and on how many platforms a scandal can be played out."

"Get a life, Finch," Sherlock retorted. "John is less than no one."

"But you're someone, aren't you?" Finch said, without pause. "People are interested in you. In your abilities, in this funny little relationship you have with the police. I'd daresay that that interest could extend to your funny little relationship with John Watson."

Sherlock felt his insides turn cold. "What's the point?" he said through gritted teeth.

"I've found your weak spot, Sherlock," Finch said with a beatific smile. "Don't I deserve a reward?"

"Weak spot?" Sherlock spat.

"John Watson," Finch smirked. "You're in love with him."

Sherlock felt the saliva catch in his throat. "W-what?" he choked. "That's... insane-"

It was one thing to accuse him of wanting to have sex with John but to suggest that he harboured such a weak, ill-calculated sensation as love was ludicrous. It was insulting. Even for Finch.

"I never thought I'd see Sherlock Holmes grappling for control over a situation that is just a bit too_ complex_ for him," Finch said with a sneer. "Perhaps you aren't quite as unfeeling and cold as you thought you were."

Sherlock stared at her. She was getting off on this. She was truly enjoying baiting him and he was biting.

"Write whatever you want," Sherlock said shortly, turning his back on her. "I don't care."

He heard her laugh and it echoed in his ears, derisive and cold.

The fresh air outside was hardly a relief. His mind was burning. The brief moment of elation had plummeted and he felt... He didn't even know anymore.

He was sick of feeling.

...

John tried to find words to speak but he seemed to find it increasingly difficult these days. Sarah was across from him, her beer clutched between her hands. She was staring into her half-empty glass, clearly thinking about something. John wondered what.

Finally, John took it upon himself to break the silence. "I've heard it's going to be a hot summer this year. You wouldn't think it, down below zero this morning in some parts-"

"Look, John," Sarah said, somewhat abruptly. She finally looked at him. "You don't have to make small talk. I understand. You're busy. Working all day and then working for Sherlock too. It must be hard on you-"

"Sherlock doesn't really use me these days," John said bitterly, taking a sip of his beer. "He doesn't need me."

Sarah stared at him. "You haven't been working for him?" There was an edge to her voice that made John put down his glass and look at her.

"No, not lately," he replied.

"But..." she stopped, "what have you been doing for the past two weeks?"

"Paperwork," John said ruefully. "Catching up on bad late night TV."

"You could have called me," Sarah said, and John abruptly realized where this conversation was going.

He felt an uneasy twinge in his stomach. "I'm really sorry that I didn't get back to you. I lost my phone."

"I know," Sarah said sharply. "You told me."

"I don't know what to tell you," John said with a shrug. "Until I get a new phone, I will probably be a bit difficult to contact."

"Look, I was willing to share you with Sherlock," Sarah said, clutching her beer between her hands like she was trying to warm herself on it. "I don't mind that you... you run about London doing whatever it is you do but... it would be nice if you perhaps put in some effort-"

"Hey!" John exclaimed. "I've just been busy lately. It's not like I'm avoiding you. Things lately have just been a bit more stressful... than usual."

"And Sherlock?" Sarah said sharply.

"What about him?" John mumbled, staring down at his beer.

"Where does he factor into this?" Sarah said in a hard voice.

John looked at her. "What are you talking about?" He said confusedly.

Sarah was silent for a moment. John stared at her, trying to understand what she wanted from him. Part of him was urging him just to tell her that he needed space. Part of him wanted to tell her that he didn't think that it was going to work. The words got stuck in his throat.

"I'm talking about the fact that you seem so..." she searched for the right word, "I don't know."

"Sarah, what do you want me to say?" John said, slightly irritated. "I've been really busy. I'm sorry. But it has nothing to do with Sherlock."

Sarah sighed, suddenly straightening up in her seat. She watched him for a moment, her eyes boring into his. She laid her palms flat on the table. "Look, I have to ask you this. You might hate me but I have to ask," she paused. John waited. "Are you attracted to Sherlock?"

...

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time had had tasted alcohol.

It was especially difficult now that he had downed the better part of a bottle of cooking sherry he'd found in the kitchen cupboard.

He despised alcohol. He had no moral complaint against it but it slowed the mind, dulled the senses. The only positive effect that he could see from drinking too much alcohol was that it also dulled emotions. For the repression of emotions there was no tonic better than alcohol.

He stared dully across the room. Just when he thought that he had made progress in the case, just when he thought that he had managed to wring the betraying thoughts of John from his mind, the rug was pulled from under his feet. Finch dangled John in front of him, taunting him.

Sherlock just wanted to forget everything that had happened in the past three weeks. Even the brief moments of being with John, kissing him and touching him were too painful to dwell on.

"So I'm getting pissed," he mumbled into his hands. "Inspired."

Downstairs he heard the door slam. He jolted upright as footsteps sounded on the stairs. John was home.

He glanced at the bottle of cooking sherry on the kitchen table.

Sherlock didn't look up as the door opened. He heard John walk across to the coffee table and throw something down onto it. It landed with a soft slap on top of the rest of the clutter.

Sherlock glanced at it. He felt his stomach swoop as he saw the cover and the crinkled words _What Weekly._

He stared at the cover, it was stained and the cover girl's face was strangely contorted by the deep creases running across it. Her beaming smile looked like a lopsided grimace.

He could feel John's eyes on him. He forced himself to look up. John's face was flushed. He looked angry. He _was _angry.

Sherlock's eyes darted briefly between John's tightly balled fists to the tight, thin line of his lips. His eyes were slightly narrowed.

He watched Sherlock in an almost challenging manner, as though daring him to feign ignorance of the magazine's contents. Sherlock could almost visualize the venom dripping from the page.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, genuinely curious.

His question seemed to infuriate John. He turned on his heel, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied manner.

Sherlock heard him give a little frustrated breath. He curved his back slightly as a betraying shiver ran down his spine at the sound.

"Sarah-"

John broke off, obviously still struck by the humiliation.

Sherlock was thankful for the slowing effect of the alcohol. His mind was already racing wildly, swerving confusedly between different thoughts. He watched John pace agitatedly up and down. His small figure was horribly marred by a maroon pullover, faded jeans and all-stars. John was frank in his lack of style, his total lack of elegance. It seemed sick that Sherlock was so turned on by it.

"What's wrong?"

Oh God. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why had he asked that?

John turned to him, his face betraying all of his emotions at once. His eyes were a convulsion of anger and frustration, his mouth was so tight that Sherlock thought it might split from the pressure; there was a deep crease between his blonde eyebrows.

It suddenly and inexplicably occurred to Sherlock that it must have been frustrating to be so perfectly unthreatening as John. If it wasn't his slightly-under-the-average (as John put it) height it was his hair which looked like a teenage girl's, which was very fair and disturbingly infantine. If it wasn't his pubescent hair it was his face. He looked so consistently... like a twenty-year-old boy.

It seemed at times almost unnatural. But Sherlock was always saved from his attraction becoming something perverse by the fact that John had wrinkles. Frown lines between his eyebrows, lines and shadows under his eyes from years of late nights and stress, smile lines and a decidedly adult male cleft to his chin. Very subtle but present.

God. He was staring.

Sherlock hastily withdrew his gaze, choosing instead the far less interesting but safer option of staring at the floor.

"You know very well what's wrong," John said in a short, brittle way as though he was just keeping the rush of emotion from rushing through like floodwaters over a dam. "How could you let that woman say those things?"

Sherlock looked up sharply, forgetting for a moment that he was at that moment a little bit drunk and beginning to realize even with his limited experience and very sorry knowledge that the throb between his legs, the heat in his stomach were symptoms of a state coined as "horny".

"What did you expect me to do?" he demanded, his voice sounding strange and distant and unlike his own. There was a frustrating, betraying slur to it. "Assassinate her? Bomb the magazine headquarters?"

"You could have done something to stop her writing- doing... from writing _this_!" John gestured agitatedly to the ruined magazine without being able to look at it. "You've been spending so much time with her I would have thought you would have had a chance to!"

"You think she would have listened to me?" Sherlock said sharply, forcing all of his energy into feigning sobriety. "She wrote it to punish me!"

"You're barely mentioned," John replied furiously, his pale face flushed with anger and his lips damp with spit. "It all centres on _me_-"

"That's the point," Sherlock said impatiently. "Don't you see? She targeted you because she knew that it would be the surest way to sabotage me. She has no interest in you, John. Apart from the fact that you're connected to me and an easy target."

He stood up. Too suddenly and his head swam for a moment with vertigo. He felt himself sway and closed his eyes against the grey blur that momentarily invaded his vision.

"You're drunk," John said suddenly.

Sherlock looked up at him, blinking his eyes several times until the blurry nausea subsided. "I am not drunk," he replied carefully, filtering out any betraying element of sherry. "Furthermore I resent the insinuation that-"

He broke off, realising that John wasn't listening to him. He was scanning the room, his hands on his hips in a very authoritarian manner. His eyes fell on the almost empty bottle of sherry. His eyebrows immediately shot up to merge with his flaxen hairline.

He went across to the kitchen bench and picked up the bottle, staring at it with a frown. "Homeless people use this to get drunk; you're not supposed to drink it straight out of the bloody bottle."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said acidly. "I'm sorry that I don't live up to your mighty expectations. Maybe you would also like to know that yes I did have a smoke tonight. Just one. It was short but _fuck_ it was good. I would do it again."

"This is crap," John said shortly, walking to the sink and pouring the contents out.

Sherlock watched the amber liquid stream out of the bottle in a thin, glassy line. John replaced the lid and dropped it into the bin where it landed with a clunk. He turned back to Sherlock, his face blank and far from triumphant.

"You don't like drinking," he said in a very calm manner. "You know why I know? Because alcohol doesn't quicken the mind, it slows it. I think you would rather suffer every moment of life's torturous boredom than risk the loss of precious brain cells. So I'm thinking that there must be something very wrong for you to drink half a bottle of cooking alcohol."

Sherlock didn't reply, he watched John closely, feverishly aware of every syllable John said and of every quick, irritated little quirk of his hands. When his mouth was in repose it curved slightly upward and his top lip had a decidedly triangular shape to it, while his bottom was a plumper but still slightly thin curve. His lips were the shape of a kiss. They were heart shaped but a little longer in width.

Sherlock must have been drunk. He was thinking such bizarre, perverse thoughts.

"Fine," John said at length. "I don't know what you have to be upset about anyway."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said sharply, staring at him as he went across to his usual chair to remove his jumper.

He struggled with it over his head and up came his shirt a little so Sherlock was treated to and tortured by the beeline of fair hair trailing temptingly under the belt of his jeans. He dropped it onto his chair and looked at Sherlock, now with his hair in a torturously post-sex sort of mess.

"I've barely spoken to you in two weeks," John said, his voice was deceivingly unaffected but Sherlock, boozy or not, couldn't miss the tautness to his features. "You've barely acknowledged me in two weeks. I might as well have not been here. You don't even look at me. Which is a bit... I don't know _rich_ after the fact that I was the one who has been defamed in a woman's magazine and got dumped by my girlfriend because she thinks I'm having sex with you."

Sherlock blinked, he felt his mouth slacken. "She what?"

"It's just really seems..." John broke off, frustration finally breaking the surface, "it seems sort of... twisted that I spend two weeks completely shut out, completely in the dark and then suddenly I'm slapped across the face with some bitchy magazine article and suddenly I have no girlfriend and no job and-"

"She sacked you?" Sherlock cut in, feeling a throb of anger at the injustice.

"No," John replied tersely, "but I'm thinking that it may not be completely viable to work so closely with a woman who at the moment really doesn't like me. And I can't say that I think much of her either."

Sherlock felt a stupid, victorious little swoop in his stomach. "What does this have to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you!" John snapped. "What have I done? What the hell have I done! I'm sorry that I went around to Shaw's house but for fuck's sake, Sherlock I didn't screw up the entire case or... or get someone killed! If you want me out just... just tell me to get out for God's sake..."

Sherlock listened to this rant in silence, realising for the first time in two stupid, selfish weeks that he may not have been the only one who had been suffering.

John was watching him, his eyes wide and almost wounded. He looked so ready to be hurt and tossed aside. He looked so small and wretched in the middle of Sherlock's chaos and all Sherlock could think about was how he wanted to undress him and see that slim, pale stomach again.

"John," Sherlock began, forcing himself to be realistic. "I didn't mean to make you feel excluded. I certainly don't hold the events at the Shaws' against you and I am sorry about yours and Sarah's relationship."

"That doesn't answer my question," John said in a hard voice. "What's wrong? Why won't you look at me?"

Sherlock felt a flare of infuriation run through him. "There's nothing! Can't you just leave well enough alone? Do you always have to be pushing and forcing for more than there is?"

"That's bullshit," John replied curtly. "You may have acute powers of deduction but I'm not stone blind. I know when someone is fobbing me off and I know when I'm being shut out-"

"Just leave, John," Sherlock said, in what he knew was an almost desperate voice. "You're making it worse."

John stared at him, so unknowing and oblivious to the torture he was inflicting upon his friend. "Tell me or I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock stared at him. For a moment no one moved. There was silence between them. A heavy, tense silence. John's eyes did not waver from his face and Sherlock felt overwhelmed by the torrid sensations in his stomach.

He felt himself moving forward without realising it and the next moment he was standing opposite John, not more than an inch between them. John stared up at him, a streak of surprise interrupting his steady gaze.

As though he were watching from above Sherlock saw himself cup John's chin, tilt his mouth upward and push his mouth gently against him. He saw him place his other hand on the small of John's back, forcing him firmly into the kiss.

But what he felt was so much more intense.

John's body was pressed yet again against his but this time it was because Sherlock willed it not because he had taken advantage of a situation.

John's body. Even through the thick layer of clothing he could feel his hips pressed against his upper thighs, his stomach adjoined to the arch of Sherlock's crotch, his chest against Sherlock's though Sherlock's nipples were disastrously hard by this stage and he was certain that John would feel it even through his shirt.

Sherlock didn't move his mouth against John's; he just pressed it against his like a stamp. He could feel John's lips were slightly parted in a long forgotten and silenced word of protest. Sherlock, too drunk on sherry and his own confused arousal to be bashful, tentatively pushed inside John's mouth, running his tongue along his bottom lip in the fashion he had done two weeks prior.

It was then that John jolted, pulling back from with a bewildered look on his very pink face. He didn't shove Sherlock away as Sherlock thought he had every right to do, he had one hand rested on Sherlock's arm and moved the other to Sherlock's chest as though to be ready to push him away if he attempted to kiss him again but he did not struggle against Sherlock's firm hand on his spine.

"What are you doing?" he said in a confused voice and Sherlock felt stunned.

He stared at John, even in his hazy state becoming rapidly aware of John's facial expression. The flush to John's cheeks, the breathiness to his voice, the hazy, warm glow in his usually crisp and matter-of-fact eyes. They told him more than words ever could, they always did.

"You're aroused," Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

John's eyes immediately widened and lost much of their glow.

Damn it, Sherlock thought testily, he definitely shouldn't have said that.

John struggled a bit now, turning his head away from Sherlock with a deep blush. "Let go-"

Sherlock forced him to look at him again, his strong fingers directing John's mouth towards his. He kissed him again and this time he felt John's whole body tense.

John pulled his head back. "Don't," he said in a shaky voice.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, loosening his grip on John's waist.

John pulled himself away. "You can't just go around kissing people..."

"You're not people," Sherlock breathed.

They stared at each other. To Sherlock it felt like time stood still, the whole universe was waiting and watching as John Watson stood opposite Sherlock Holmes with his mouth slightly flushed.

John licked his lips very slightly and it was as though twenty seconds of lost time came rushing over them in one quick wave.

Sherlock found himself somehow against the wall despite it being some two metres behind him and he found that John seemed to have forced him there and was now kissing him with an almost animalistic fervour. Sherlock could feel one of his hands on his waist and the other was balled up in his collar. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he felt John's mouth, for the first time, react to his kiss in a heated frenzy.

He could hardly react for the sensation of John's tongue forcing itself into his mouth, taking control of his body and sending helpless shivers up his spine. He found his hands somehow around John's waist, under his shirt. John's flesh was smooth and very warm. He moved his hands up the curve of his waist and felt John's back curve and felt him gasp slightly into his mouth.

Sherlock found himself rocking his hips forward against John's. He didn't know why but it felt a natural movement and when his crotch met John's it was like pleasure had been injected directly into his veins and was rushing to every corner of his body.

He could taste beer on John's breath as he broke away, breathing heavily. Sherlock's grip instinctively tightened on John's waist, silently begging him not to stop. He stared into John's foggy eyes, overwhelmed by his own burgeoning lust.

"I'm sorry," John gasped, turning his face away from Sherlock's.

He moved his hands to grip both of Sherlock's arms, trying to force a space between them.

Sherlock felt a pang of hurt and cursed himself for his weakness. He had known that this would happen. He had known it and he couldn't let it affect him. John didn't really want him. He had been drinking. He was upset about Sarah. He was angry. That could be misconstrued as arousal.

Sherlock loosened his grip around his waist, resting his hands on John's hips and lowering his eyes to the triangle of skin visible between his neck and his shirt. "It's alright. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous."

John walked away. Sherlock watched him walk towards the sofa in a very straight, quivering line. His back was expanding and contracting visibly. Sherlock could hear him breathing. He was moving a hand to his chin, rubbing it, hunching his shoulders, turning his head from side to side.

He turned back to him. He was frowning.

"It's okay, John," Sherlock said quietly. "I didn't expect-"

"Shut up," John snapped.

He walked back towards Sherlock and forced his lips against his again. Sherlock whimpered before he could stop himself and blushed fiercely as John's hands gripped his collar and pulled his mouth deeper into the bruising kiss.

It was hardly a kiss at all; it was more like an act of ownership. It hurt, but Sherlock found himself opening his mouth desperately, wanting more, wanting John to take it. Take him.

John broke away, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to Sherlock's. Sherlock met his eye, he'd given John every chance to stop, to run away and he hadn't. He barely dared to think that John wanted him like he wanted John. He couldn't bear to believe it.

"You've never kissed anyone before me, have you?" John asked, his voice slightly husky.

Sherlock felt his breath against his mouth and felt his fingers curl against John's arched back. The height difference between them made the kiss somewhat difficult and Sherlock could feel that John was balancing on the balls of his feet to close the gap partly.

Sherlock watched him, weighing up whether it was an accusation or a question or an evaluation of his kissing abilities. He gave a very small shake of his head, feeling like it took every ounce of effort he possessed to concede this personal failure. That he had never had true physical contact with another human being in all thirty-something years of his life.

John was watching him. His face betraying all of the undisclosed emotions he felt. "I'm getting hard," he said frankly.

Sherlock blinked. "I... I..." He stammered, becoming rapidly aware of the rigid mound of flesh between his own legs. "I want you." There was nothing for it but to be equally frank.

He hoped John didn't expect anything poetic from him because he felt unable at present to provide him with anything but blunt, desire muddled drunkenness.

John nodded but he didn't kiss him again. "What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, pulling back slightly to ease the strain in his neck and feeling John's hands slide down from his collar to rest on his chest again.

"Do you think we should do this?" John asked bluntly.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, trying to back away so that his erection was not pressed quite so obviously into John's stomach.

John arched an eyebrow in a cynical fashion and then, without warning, pressed his mouth against Sherlock's neck.

"J-John!" Sherlock spluttered, grasping John's hair in alarm.

The warm tongue which ran pointedly up from the nape of his neck to the space just below his ear almost brought him to his knees. He'd never experienced anything so intimate and wet and heated. Goosebumps erupted across his skin.

John heard Sherlock's choke and couldn't help smirking against his skin. He had wanted Sherlock to realise what he was getting himself into.

Sherlock tasted vaguely sweet and slightly bitter. His aftershave was just audible above the confusion of flavours, tangy and slightly metallic.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side with a breathy little noise that sent heat rushing to John's groin. He moaned slightly into Sherlock's skin, catching it between his lips without meaning to. He felt Sherlock curve with a barely audible gasp of:

"John..."

John found himself breathing harshly as he straightened up, staring at Sherlock's flushed face. He slid a hand down to the betraying mound protruding against Sherlock's trousers. He rubbed it, feeling Sherlock's hips roll up into his palm.

Sherlock moaned, throwing his head back against the wall. "Oh... I've... I've never..." he panted, unable to string a sentence together while John was stroking him in agonizing repetition.

Suddenly John stopped. Sherlock let out a protesting whine, trying to grasp John's shirt but his fingers were shaking almost uncontrollably.

John stepped away again, turning and walking to the middle of the room again. He ran a clammy hand through his hair. Sherlock could see damp patches faintly on his sweater.

"What are you frightened of?" Sherlock croaked, still flat against the wall and straining against the painful confines of his jeans.

"We shouldn't be doing this," John said, shaking his head and not turning to him.

"_Why_?" Sherlock snapped. "I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me. What's the problem?"

John turned to him. "I'm not gay, Sherlock," he said bluntly.

"Of course not..." Sherlock said, slumping down against the wall.

John watched Sherlock for a moment; his eyes were being tortured by a million different expressions. Sherlock eyed the telltale bulge between his legs. He wanted to touch him so badly. He wanted to touch what was underneath those stiff, boring jeans.

Another lapse in time. This time it was thirty seconds. It was like a video being fast forwarded and another copy of Sherlock, a voyeur was watching with lustful glee.

Sherlock was being pulled up roughly by the collar by John. Suddenly hands were clumsily tugging at his buttons while John's mouth attacked his again damp and clumsy in his fervour. The tongue forced itself into his mouth, fucking him again with forceful strokes. John knew how to kiss.

Sherlock tried ineptly to reciprocate but his mouth refused to comply and instead insisted on lying itself at John's feet and begging for it deeper.

John broke away and immediately the wet, hot sensation was again on his neck only this time John nipped gently at his flesh and Sherlock felt himself slide down the wall slightly as his knees seemed to give up the fight.

He moaned, cocking his head again to the side almost automatically. John ran his tongue up Sherlock's excited flesh to his mouth again and this time his kiss was accompanied by his hands undoing the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock felt his buttons being undone one by one and all he could do was force himself harder against John.

"I'm so hard," he moaned haplessly, unable to comprehend how anything could feel so painful and yet so unbearably pleasurable.

His shirt slid off his shoulders, he let it slide off of him and gritted his teeth against the sensation of his nipples being exposed to the cold night air and John's eyes.

John stood back for a moment; his eyes running up and down Sherlock's figure with an undisguised wantonness that made Sherlock want to touch himself. He refrained -just.

He had never had so many filthy and delirious thoughts in all his life. He had never wanted so badly to be connected to another person.

John surveyed his prize with a mixture of utter confusion and the strongest sense of raw lust he had experienced in a very long time. Sherlock's slender, breakable figure was white except for the telltale trail of black hair leading from his navel downwards. John's eyes trailed along the low band of Sherlock's jeans. He could see just slightly black hairs under the band, begging him wistfully to explore Sherlock's divine figure further.

Sherlock took him by surprise by suddenly leaving his place pressed against the wall and going across to the sofa. John watched him as he knelt on the sofa, laying his hands on the arm. He didn't have to speak, the glance he gave John over his shoulder was enough to send jolts- or spasms it felt like of unconstrained want down his stomach to the tip of his straining sex.

He went across to the sofa, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's perfect figure. It was an unmistakeable invitation but John didn't know if he could take it. His body was unmistakeably begging for it with the ache of his loins and flutter of his pulse but his mind kept posing terrible, irritating problems.

Such as-

"Sherlock, you've never had sex before."

Sherlock looked at him and sat back on his legs. He didn't look very pleased. "That's not a very romantic thing to say to someone who was about to give you their virginity," he said testily.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," John said, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips.

"I have an erection," Sherlock said with almost embarrassing bluntness. He cocked an eyebrow at the front of John's jeans. "As do you," there was a smug edge to his voice that made John blush fiercely.

"It's not a case of being attracted or aroused," John said sharply, though his body was screaming at him to just bend Sherlock over and fuck him and fuck him and fuck him until the detective couldn't walk.

"Oh my God," Sherlock burst out in frustration. "Why are you so difficult? Why do you make everything so bloody convoluted?"

"Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth, "have you ever had a penis stuck up your arse? Because I can tell you now that it is a little bit on the... tight side."

Sherlock stared at him and slowly turned around to sit on the sofa, sliding his legs down in front of him. "You've done it before?"

It didn't take much deducting to tell that the magenta colour John had gone was an affirmative.

"Once. A few years ago. Pretty drunk," John grunted, going and sitting next to Sherlock.

Sherlock was certain he could feel the heat radiating from John's flesh and hear his heightened heartbeat. He stared at his fallen shirt. A few hours ago he could not have ever have predicted that he would have been in this situation.

It felt like a dream. But whether it was a good dream or a wet dream was not yet determined.

"Undo yourself," John said suddenly, staring at the front of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock looked at him questioningly but complied in spite of himself. He undid the buttons on his jeans. It didn't really do much because his jeans were very tight and the fly very small.

"God, Holmes," John said, running two fingers down Sherlock's stomach and sliding them into the band of his underwear. "How do you survive wearing these? They're skin tight."

Sherlock gasped and bucked his hips as John's fingers unknowingly caressed his pubis.

"Ugh-"

He rubbed the area between his legs. He had been becoming used to the dull, aching throb of unfulfilled desire but this was something else. It was physically painful and it felt like burning magma was pooling around his crotch.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply, as John knelt down before him, parting his legs purposefully.

"What does it look like?" John said crossly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then silently stood and pulled his jeans down his thighs. It was a slight struggle and he was very conscious of John's eyes fixed to the space between his legs. When he finally managed to free himself, he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. His cock felt so hard it hurt.

He glanced down, cringing at the sight of himself straining against his underwear (thank God he'd worn boxer briefs today).

He sat back down and spread his knees either side of John's head and having little idea of where his shame had gone to. He fingered the band of his underwear. John's mouth was closed. His face was blank but Sherlock could see the heat in his eyes as he willed Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally yanked them down to his thighs as well. He fell back against the sofa, unable to bear looking at himself.

He heard John exhale shakily.

Silently, he ran his hand gently up Sherlock's inner-thigh, clearly concerned that too much direct attention to the detective's painfully erect and already damp sex would overwhelm him completely and make him come all over himself before John had even taken him properly in hand.

Sherlock dug his nails into the arm of the sofa and his teeth into his bottom lip as the torturous fingers trailed up the inside of his leg and came to a halt just below his hip.

"Don't stop," he gasped, staring at the ceiling with his eyes slightly damp.

Slowly, carefully John finally slid his hand around Sherlock's cock, running his fingers up and down the damp shaft. He let his fingers stray teasingly close to the heated space under his cock but he never strayed close enough to touch. Sherlock was definitely not ready to have his prostate fondled.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, the breath caught in his throat and the most... the most... He couldn't find a word to describe the sensation running through his privates. It was sharp and sweet. It was inexplicable, unexplainable.

John's fingers were warm and slightly callused and they stroked him so gently, just barely touching him and his member seemed to be straining for more. John ran his fingers over the head and Sherlock moaned, throwing his head back. His fingers were curling and uncurling against the sofa, he needed to hold something. He was going to drown in the pleasure.

John rubbed the dampness between his fingers, rubbing it up Sherlock's length and coating him with his own seed. Then he added his own saliva to the mix, making Sherlock as wet as he could without putting his mouth on him.

He didn't think that he should do that without warning.

"I'm going to take it in my mouth," he said conversationally, still gently rubbing Sherlock up and down in time with his small, helpless thrusts.

"Wh-what?" Sherlock said desperately, panting.

"If you can't handle having your cock sucked, you'll never handle being fucked over a sofa," John said and, without waiting for Sherlock to protest, he licked the damp head.

"John!" Sherlock whimpered, giving John a beautiful preview of what could soon follow.

He felt Sherlock's hand ball up in his hair. "_Ouch,_ Sherlock," he said, his lips brushing the straining tip of Sherlock's sex as he spoke. "Relax for God's sake. I'm not going to bite it."

Sherlock tried to loosen his grip but his hand felt like it had locked into place. He forced himself to take it back and grip the sofa arm instead.

John gently teased Sherlock's glistening crown, already aware that Sherlock was going to work out that he was a little bit too good at it to be a first timer but not able to care.

He looked up. He could see Sherlock straining, trying desperately not to move as John teased him. His eyes were wide and almost panicked as he stared at the ceiling.

John sat back on his heels. "Sherlock," he said patiently, "when most men are getting their cocks sucked they usually don't seem quite so horrified by it."

Sherlock deflated slightly, his uncomfortably stiff, straight back finally sagging. "You have to understand..." he said weakly, "I've never... I've never... done anything like this..."

John stared at him. "You've never touched yourself?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John was stunned. "What. _Never_?"

"Well, it was never a problem until I met you," Sherlock said crossly, before he could stop himself.

He closed his mouth, turning slightly pink.

John smirked. "That's flattering... in a sort of... weird kind of way."

He knelt back up, resting his fingers incredibly gently on Sherlock's member. "Alright. I'm going to show you something. It'll feel good but you have to relax."

"How will I know when I'm going to..." Sherlock broke off, blushing fiercely.

"Come?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "Believe me... you'll know."

"Alright," Sherlock said, lying flat against the sofa and spreading his legs a tiny bit wider. "Can you... just... take it slow?"

John savoured the moment of power, lowering his eyes down to Sherlock's cock and then back up to Sherlock's concerned grey eyes. "It's fine," he said, gently gliding his hands up and down Sherlock's shaft and slowly taking the head in his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around the head, knowing that the most sensitive points were underneath the head and right on the rip. He lapped his tongue like a cat's over the tip and immediately felt Sherlock's hips give a small jolt and a gasp leave him.

Sherlock covered his mouth with one hand and dug his nails into the sofa with the other.

"Relax," John murmured, running his hand up the underside of Sherlock's sex and touching his ball sac.

"John-" Sherlock breathed, arching his back with a strangled groan.

John bent down, replacing his fingers with his tongue. He teased Sherlock's balls gently with his tongue, savouring the salty taste and the tang of Sherlock's soap. He could feel Sherlock becoming tenser and tenser but he kept going, gently and refraining from anything he thought would completely overwhelm him.

Sherlock was beyond knowing what he was doing. The sensations below were... Well, he'd never felt anything like them. To have such intimate places of his body touched was bewildering in the best way imaginable.

He felt John's warm tongue move up the underside of his shaft in one fluid movement to the head. The head was throbbing slightly and when John took it back in his mouth, Sherlock heard a moan leave his own mouth that sounded so wanton and raw that he was almost humbled by his own low carnality.

John slid two sticky, damp fingers around the base of his cock rubbing him in a slow, gentle ring. Sherlock laid his head back on the sofa, unable to keep his hips from rocking in and out of John's mouth. He could see John's blonde head out of the corner of his eye, bobbing and working. He could see his eyes were still watching Sherlock, bright and not betraying the slightest slither of emotion.

"John..." he breathed, resting a hand carefully in John's hair and moving his hips rhythmically with John's mouth.

John recognised the wordless signal Sherlock had given him. He moved his mouth further up Sherlock's cock, the taste of pre-cum foreign and familiar at the same time in his throat. He moved his hand to the hot, hairless area beneath Sherlock's ball sac. The perineum. He rested his finger very carefully against it but immediately felt Sherlock's whole body spasm.

"Uh!" Sherlock whimpered.

John hastily removed his fingers. Alright. He was too much of a beginner for that. Yet.

John instead moved his hand to the base of his cock and stroked, using all of his fingers to softly rub him up and down while he began to suck on the more sensitive head.

"Oh-ah-J-John..." Sherlock babbled, fucking John's mouth in slow, smooth repetition. "Fe-feels..."

John would have felt smug if he hadn't felt so completely overcome with his own arousal. He hadn't done anything like this for such a long, long time. He needed to touch himself.

Without halting his attentions to Sherlock, he moved his free hand down to his own trousers, rubbing the front of his trousers as hard as he could without being able to get to his actual skin. He knew it would be impossible to take himself in hand yet, not when Sherlock was so close to his own release.

His head was still thrown back and his back was now completely arched, occasionally a whimper or a whine would betray him no matter how hard he bit his lip and tried to keep himself under control.

He began to heighten his movements, as he felt Sherlock's hips becoming increasingly abrupt in their movements. Sherlock was breathing so hard, John wanted so badly to do more to him but he had to pace himself. Not yet.

He stealthily moved his hand and cupped Sherlock's balls, earning another cry from Sherlock. This one longer and more desperate.

"John I think-"

He broke off, tossing his head to one side and screwing up his eyes in an expression of what appeared to be intense pain.

John decided it was time for Sherlock to experience his first true pleasure. Rubbing himself as hard as was viable through his jeans, he took Sherlock as far as he could into his mouth, lapping at his cock and at the same time he slid two fingers up his perineum to his heated entrance.

The reaction was immediate and more violent than John had predicted.

Sherlock bucked his hips upwards and John would have gagged had he not pulled back an inch at the last moment. Sherlock cried out without being able to stop himself, a strangled and desperate moan. It was a moan of complete abandonment.

John's eyes were filled with Sherlock's expression. It was impossible to describe. It looked as though he was experiencing intense physical pain but John knew that he was experiencing his first taste of complete pleasure.

John moaned against Sherlock's shaft, closing his eyes. Sherlock's expression was imprinted in his mind. Utter abandonment. Utter need. Utter desperation.

He opened his mouth slightly and felt liquid dribble down his chin and onto his chest. He swallowed as much of Sherlock's seed as he could and pulled back, falling backwards onto his arse.

Sherlock fell sideways onto the sofa, lying there with a blank expression on his face and his jeans still hanging about his thighs.

John didn't speak. Sherlock's taste was strong in his mouth and his out of condition jaw ached slightly from the exertion. He was also still sporting a throbbing erection and he wasn't entirely sure whether Sherlock's boneless figure on the sofa would be much help. He looked like he was about to fall unconscious.

"Sher-

John's voice failed him. He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock tried to sit up but his arms were shaking uncontrollably. He exhaled sharply and slumped back down onto his back. "I can't sit up," he said weakly.

John ran his eyes up Sherlock's figure, pausing momentarily on his now flaccid manhood and the jeans and briefs still tight around his thighs. He felt a pang inside of him.

"Oh God," he mumbled, putting a palm to his forehead.

Sherlock turned his head, looking at him dazedly. "What?"

John stumbled to his feet. "Oh God," he said again, staring at Sherlock with a mixture of different emotions that made one confused stain.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room without looking at Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. Wide and hurt. Wondering what he had done wrong. Perhaps he didn't care. Perhaps he was too tired to care.

John went up to his room and closed the door firmly behind him, closing out the scene that had just passed, the flurry of events that had made it up. He sat numbly on the edge of his bed, not allowing himself to think.

After ten minutes, or maybe fifteen he stood up and searched aimlessly for his pyjamas.

TBC


	8. Popular Music

A/N: I was supposed to post this last night but it got later and later so I finally had to get some sleep. Really _not_ happy with this chapter. I tried. I really did. I rewrote it about five times. It just refused to do what I wanted it to do. Especially the last scene. Don't even_ talk_ to me about the last scene.

IDK.

Please enjoy, thank you for your lovely reviews. Bear with me.

Disclaimer: Nope.

_Chapter eight-_

John awoke the next morning sticky and hot and horribly aware of the past night's events. There was no quiet, slow lull into realisation; it hit him as soon as he opened his eyes. His head ached dully but he knew this was a result of anxiety and lack of sleep and not evidence of any drunken alibi he could present to himself.

He felt more exhausted than when he had finally fallen asleep some four or five hours prior after an hour of tossing and turning.

He was wrapped up in the covers of his bed and underneath he felt like a sweaty, hot lump. He peeled them off and stared down at his pyjamas. He cringed, pressing a clammy palm to his forehead.

He was humiliated and ashamed of how many times he had yanked his pyjamas down the night before and found himself rubbing his sore and slick member between equally chapped fingers until he finally came half-heartedly onto himself or reached something resembling an orgasm but far weaker and not at all satisfying. Every time he had thought that the lust was at last subsiding, it threw itself over him again and he found himself on his back, legs splayed and a very male figure reclining in his mind's eye.

"God damn it, Sherlock," he mumbled, sliding his legs off of the bed and planting them firmly on the floorboards. His hands were shaking slightly. He clasped them between his knees, trying to ignore all the aching, sore parts of his body. He felt like he had just been ravished by his own mind and the thoughts which lurked there.

He stood and limped to his wardrobe, tugging blindly for something resembling a shirt and tugging the tangled mess of his jeans from around the leg of the chair beside the door.

There was a mirror hanging beside the wardrobe. It was long and made out of some form of tarnished white metal. John hated it and had tried to remove it but for whatever reason it was fastened to the wall and wouldn't budge.

John hated it because it willed him to look at himself while he was undressed and no matter which way he turned he could see the pale, yellow outline of himself. Even if he turned his back on it there was no escape. In fact it made matters even worse because the mirror on his dressing table opposite reflected directly onto the mirror behind him.

And if there was anything he liked less than looking at himself nude from one side it was looking at himself nude from both sides.

He stared at the dusty floor and dressed, carefully ignoring the slither of pale flesh he could see out of the corner of his eye. He pulled on a white cotton shirt with long sleeves and no buttons, the sort of shirt that was called a skivvy in some parts of the world but was more often referred to as a polo-neck in his own.

He untangled his jeans and stared at them. They were wrinkled and, on closer inspection, he could see a damp stain around the hips that a dense part of his mind blithely informed him was probably Sherlock's ejaculate.

"Shut up, idiot," he snapped, tossing his jeans back into the corner and turning back to the wardrobe without thinking.

He stopped short, his eyes immediately caught off guard by the sight of himself. His half-dressed figure was definitely too much for this time of the morning. At least he was wearing underwear. Be them a pair of faded, slightly too tight grey trunks that his mother had bought him.

The skivvy, he also noted, was slightly too tight. He would have to wear a jumper over it. He opened the wardrobe and chose another pair of jeans to wear.

Afterwards he brushed his hair, cleaned his teeth, washed his face, contemplated shaving and then decided he couldn't be bothered. With all of this out of the way and no more excuses to do otherwise, he finally conceded to go downstairs.

He made the journey in spurts. He stood at the top of the stairs, made it down three with a sense of determined resolve, stopped short at the fourth and turned to go back upstairs, managed three more, stopped, took a deep breath, stood there for some three or four minutes baiting himself with thoughts of how stupid he was being, finally made it down the complete flight and then was struck with a sense of terror at what he was about to do and turned to run back up again.

Mrs Hudson's cheerfully invasive voice thwarted any such retreat with her call of: "Good morning, John!" as she bustled past from the door with the newspaper and the post. "Sleep well did you, dear? Sherlock's waiting for you," she paused, glancing around as though the hallway was crowded with people. She leant in slightly towards him. "Between you and me, I think he got out of the wrong side of the bed today. Maybe you can talk him 'round? He's making the most dreadful racket."

She disappeared down the end of the hallway, having successfully conducted a conversation in which John hadn't said a word.

John glanced at Sherlock's door. He swallowed; his throat feeling like it was full of dry, thick, sluggish goo. He edged towards it, one hand stretching out and latching onto it without his really having any intention of turning it.

He stood there for what could have been a minute or five, staring blankly at the door.

"Alright on the count of three," he told himself finally, taking the knob tighter in his hand. "One, two..." he inhaled, "th-"

The door swung open and John was yanked unceremoniously forward. He found himself with his face inches away from Sherlock's. Sherlock stared down at him, appearing only slightly surprised to see him. He didn't step back as any normal person might do. John stumbled backwards and almost lost his balance, grabbing onto the wall to steady himself.

"John," Sherlock said pleasantly, as though he were the postman. "I've received a text from Finch. She's given me a lead."

John stared at him. "Lead?" he said blankly.

"Joana Shaw," Sherlock said briskly, stepping forward and closing the door behind him. "I think Finch finally came to her senses."

He walked past John without looking at him. He was already dressed in his usual coat and scarf. He looked immaculate. As though he had slept well, risen at his normal time, bathed, ate breakfast and was going about his business as usual.

"Mrs Hudson said you were making a racket," John said lamely, trying to think of something to say when the whole situation seemed so improbable. "She said you were in a bad mood." He was entertaining a thought... a hope even, that this was all a facade and underneath there was a man who was as confused and unsettled as he was.

"She really needs to stop eavesdropping on her tenants," Sherlock said in a gentle reprove.

He stood at the door, buttoning his coat and seemingly oblivious to John's astonished eyes on him.

He turned his head to John. "Coming?"

John watched as Sherlock opened the door, about to go out without even waiting for John. Suddenly all of John's indignant thoughts came rushing up to speed. "Wait!" he cried, before he had realised he was speaking.

Sherlock turned back to him, peering at him unsurprised and questioning. "What's wrong?"

John was taken aback. "Is that it? Are we not going to speak at all?"

"We can speak in the taxi," Sherlock said, feeling for his phone in his coat pocket.

John shook his head slowly, overcome with the strangeness of Sherlock's behaviour. "Sherlock, you must know that... that I... I may not be able to..." he paused, breathing deeply, "I may not be able to stay here."

Sherlock was staring at his phone and didn't look up.

John stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to react and feeling inexplicably frustrated by the blankness of Sherlock's features. "Sherlock!" he snapped.

"Mm?" Sherlock said, lowering his phone and looking at John over the top. "Oh yes. Very well. You'll want to pack your things no doubt. I'll get out of your way. Don't hesitate to call me if you require anything at all."

And with that he turned on his heel and went out. The door closed with a resolute snap behind him and the traffic outside was eclipsed by ringing silence and the pounding of blood in John's own ears as he stared at the closed door in disbelief.

...

Sherlock stood in front of Baker Street, fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette he had told John he had smoked last night. The taxi honked at him from a little way down the road. He walked down to it, his hand still shoved limply in his pocket.

"Where you off to, mate?" said the cab driver, craning around to look at him as Sherlock slid inside and closed the door.

"Ah..." Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to distinguish one thought in his mind from another. "Curzon Street, Mayfair."

The cabbie shrugged, as though he didn't think much of Sherlock's choice. "Right you are."

Sherlock sat in silence, not even protesting when the cab driver turned on the radio and Katy Perry's shrill, raspy strains filled the car.

He kept his eyes firmly ahead and didn't let himself look out of the window as Baker Street filtered past. If he had seen John he didn't know what he would do, but at the same time he would have done anything to know that John had followed him.

Well, Baker Street was gone now. He would never know.

He felt something prick in his eye. He exhaled and blinked until it was gone.

_'Cause you're hot then you're cold. You're yes then you're no. You're in then you're out. You're up then you're do-_

"For fuck's sake, turn it off," Sherlock snapped.

...

John walked numbly into Sherlock's living room, part of him entertaining a thought of turning and running after Sherlock and another, much bigger part of him paralysed with a feeling of affronted abandonment.

He couldn't believe it. Sherlock really didn't care about last night. He wasn't even thinking about it. He didn't even care that John was going to have to leave to make things right.

As melodramatic as it seemed, John couldn't see any other way around it. There were things that- Well, everyone needed boundaries. Everyone needed secrets. John had his and he didn't think that he could take the shame of being at a man like Sherlock's mercy.

He sat on the sofa, unable to contemplate having to pack his things. Over the months he had lived with Sherlock he had been so tantalizingly close to happiness. He had almost touched it. The fear and hysteria that Sherlock had brought into his life had eased the loneliness and anxiety that the war had left behind. John's psychological scars seemed proportionately minuscule when compared to those of Sherlock Holmes.

He looked down at the seat beside him where Sherlock had been slumped the night before. There was nothing to suggest that anything strange had occurred there other than a slight incline where Sherlock had been sitting. John frowned at it; it seemed almost to be taunting him with its crinkled, lopsided leather smirk. Taunting him with what it had partook in the night before.

He looked away, shaking his head. No. Sofas didn't have faces and they couldn't taunt. He must have been overtired. He lay down on the sofa, ignoring the imagined sensation of warmth from where Sherlock's body had been hours before.

...

When Terry Kirk, former television psychologist, had fallen from grace he had effectively also fallen off the map. While his wife had very publicly removed their only daughter from London with her, Kirk had remained within London, retreating to some unknown and exclusive location to lick his wounds. So far he had successfully avoided any notice.

Unfortunately, Kirk hadn't counted on Georgette Finch keeping tabs on him.

Sherlock rang the bell of his townhouse and waited, one hand on his phone in his pocket.

The door opened almost immediately. Terry Kirk looked exactly like he did on television. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, thin, pale with a red beard and a bald patch on the centre of his head. His watery eyes narrowed as he took in Sherlock's appearance.

"What is it?" he snapped. "I'm not interested in buying whatever you're selling-"

"Mr. Kirk, I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock cut in. "Ms Finch gave me your address. May I come in?"

What little colour was in the man's milky face seemed to drain away at the mention of Ms Finch's name. "Wh-what? Finch? When? Why-" he cut off, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"I'm investigating the murder of her daughter," Sherlock said placidly. "May I come in?"

Kirk looked him up and down, his eyes tracing the length of Sherlock's arm, still hanging from his pocket. He didn't move.

Sherlock brought his hand out of his pocket, stretching his fingers out. "I have no weapon and no recording device," he said, pressing down the length of his coat. "I promise you I am not here on any business of Georgette Finch's. I have my own to conduct for the London police."

The man ran his eyes once more up and down Sherlock's coat and then finally nodded, standing back. Sherlock went inside, loosening the buttons on his coat.

"Come through here," Kirk said grudgingly.

Sherlock followed him down the length of the very stark, white hallway with its dome-shaped lights and long, rectangular Persian rug to the living room. It was designed in quite the opposite style of Georgette Finch's. It was sparse, spacious and decorated only with two rather large splotchy, colourful paintings on one wall and a shapeless white sculpture beside the long black expanse of the flat screen television.

There were two white leather sofas, Kirk did not sit but gestured vaguely for Sherlock to do so. Sherlock removed his coat and sat down.

"Lovely home you have, Mr. Kirk," Sherlock said, casting a distasteful eye around the modern decor.

"What do I have to do with Joana Shaw's death?" Kirk said abruptly, still standing stiffly by the door, his hands buried in the pockets of his cord trousers.

"You knew of her death?" Sherlock said, feigning surprise.

"Of course," Kirk replied derisively. "It was all over the news. Even if it hadn't been, Finch would have made certain that it got around somehow." He gave a bitter laugh, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said, glancing at the bookshelf nearby where a very small collection of photos were collected. Most were of a young girl with red hair in braids.

"Have you met Finch?" Kirk said brusquely, narrowing his eyes at the floor. "She's a vindictive, attention starved bitch. All this publicity. She must love it."

Sherlock coughed delicately. "Be that as it may, she must have some interest in the case being settled otherwise she wouldn't have given me your address."

"Why would she give you my address?" Kirk said, looking up wildly. "She can't think that I would-"

He broke off sharply, clearing his throat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I assume you had no great love for Joana Shaw," he said wryly, subconsciously rubbing his thumb up and down the buttons of his phone in his pocket. "She humiliated you, betrayed your trust."

To his surprise, Kirk shrugged. "I have nothing to hate Joana for," he said, leaning against the doorframe with a heavy sigh. "She was completely under her mother's control when she... she did the things she did."

"You've lost everything," Sherlock said sharply, not able to believe that the man who had spent years constructing his television empire out of careful lies could so easily forgive the girl who had publicly exposed him for what he really was. "You really mean to tell me that you felt no antipathy whatsoever for the girl who came into your life, into your home, told you she loved you and then betrayed you?" he laughed humourlessly. "Please, Mr. Kirk. Let's not insult us both."

Kirk stared at him, his eyes betraying his understanding. "I've heard of you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock," Sherlock said mildly. "Mr. Holmes sounds so dated, don't you think?"

"You helped with those terrorist attacks a while back," Kirk said shrewdly, as though he hadn't heard him. "When that lunatic was trying to blow up all those people."

Sherlock thinned his lips. "Yes, well. That case yielded a less than wholly satisfactory result," he said dryly. "This case however I am hoping will be closed imminently without further casualties."

Kirk's arm slid off the doorframe, he straightened up hurriedly. "You're not suggesting that I-"

"It's been two weeks and the police are very eager for a result," Sherlock said, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb around one of the buttons on his phone. "Tell me, Terry - you don't mind if I call you Terry, do you? - how well did you know Thomas Shaw?"

"Thomas Shaw? Barely at all," Kirk said, taken aback. "I saw him in the news a couple of times after all this business happened."

"So suggesting that you conspired to murder his wife and hide the evidence would be, in a word, ludicrous?" Sherlock said archly.

Kirk's mouth slipped open slightly, revealing two sets of slightly greying but strangely symmetrical teeth. "L-ludicrous?" he spluttered. "It's slanderous, that's what it is!" He gasped for breath, staring at Sherlock with wide, watery eyes. "Do you know what you're accusing me of?"

Sherlock watched him, unimpressed by this little display of umbrage. "I know very well what I am accusing you of. The murder of a girl who ruined your life and was routinely being unfaithful to her husband. Both of you have splendid motives if nothing else."

For a moment Kirk did not speak and then finally he walked over to the bookshelf. As he passed him Sherlock noticed his hands were shaking very slightly. Though from anger or fear was difficult to tell.

Kirk turned to him, clutching a long, rectangular wooden frame in which was a photo of Kirk and the beaming, red-haired toddler. He held it out to Sherlock, his hands clasped too tightly onto both ends for Sherlock to mistakenly make the presumption of touching it.

"That's my daughter," Kirk said shortly, sounding like he was barely able to speak his lips were thinned so aggressively. "Garnet. She's already been through hell. Her mother's taken her out to God knows where, she's had to change schools, she's lost friends. Do you think I would be so stupid, so self-centred as to risk never seeing her again by getting myself imprisoned?" he laughed grimly. "Finch and her daughter aren't worth it."

Sherlock realised he'd stopped breathing for a moment. He caught his breath as subtly as he could, turning away in the act of clearing his throat.

He heard Kirk put the frame back down and cross to the sofa opposite. There was a squeak of leather as he sat down. "No, Mr. Holmes. I did not kill Joana Shaw," he paused. "Do you believe me?"

Sherlock looked at him. There was something about the uncharacteristic earnestness of Kirk's face that told him that he was not lying. "I believe you," he said at length.

Kirk gazed at him for a moment, as though waiting for Sherlock to add a 'but' to the end of that sentence. When he didn't, Kirk's figure drooped visibly in relief. "I also have an alibi," he said calmly, his old manner hastily reappearing to atone for his moment of weakness.

Sherlock blinked, surprised against his will. "What? Why didn't you just-"

"I didn't think you would believe me," Kirk said, leaning back heavily in his seat and pressing his hands behind his head. "On the night Joana died... I was with her mother."

Sherlock stared at him, his mind blank with the improbability of what Kirk was saying. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" he said, all of his suspicions rushing back in one wave.

"Yes, I was with her," Kirk said, not looking at him. "Or she was with me. Whichever you prefer."

Sherlock waited for him to expand, but he was staring at the ceiling and didn't reply. "And what precisely were you doing? And if that's true then why would Finch suggest you were involved?"

"I was giving her an interview," Kirk said dully, pushing his head upright with his hands on the back of his neck. "Trying to salvage the remains of my ruined career." He paused with a humourless chuckle. "Finch never did like me much; I suppose she thought implicating me in a murder would be something of a joke. Something else for the tabloids to write about. Well, we'll see who's laughing once I get back on my feet."

Sherlock felt what little respect he had gathered for Kirk disperse abruptly. "I see," he said coldly.

"Well, I need to work!" Kirk blustered, sitting up straight. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Kirk's very red face.

"Very well, Mr. Kirk," Sherlock stood up, feeling for his coat. "If that's all the information you have..."

He gathered his coat up in his arms. Kirk didn't move. He was leaning forward in his seat, his hands limply clasped together.

"I will speak to Finch to validate your alibi," Sherlock said, turning and walking to the door. Part of him thought that Kirk would speak before he reached it. He was certain there was more that Kirk wanted to say. "And to make certain that there are no discrepancies."

Kirk remained silent. Sherlock inwardly sighed and made his own way out.

"Well, that was a waste of time," he breathed to himself, stepping back down onto the slightly damp footpath and looking up and down the narrow, deserted street.

He now had to go _back _to Finch's. Perfect. Just perfect. She must have been doing this deliberately. Sending him on a wild goose chase just to make him look like an idiot when he had to go crawling back to her to confirm the alibi she already knew existed.

He had really thought that she might have come to her senses. Or had he? Perhaps he had just wanted to escape the house while John was in it.

He felt his insides contract at John's name. For a brief thirty minutes he had almost forgotten about the mess he had left at home.

Last night's events were attached to an almost overwhelming sense of humiliation. The bewilderment had subsided some time after John had left him. He'd heard him go upstairs, heard his door close.

It had taken him a while to bully his mind and body into working order.

He walked numbly to the door of the waiting taxi. The taxi driver was reading his newspaper with the radio on at full blast and didn't seem to notice Sherlock getting into the back.

"_Baker Street_!" Sherlock had to all but roar before he finally jolted and craned around to peer at him.

"Ah sorry, mate! Didn't see you there? Where you off to?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Baker Street," he said, through gritted teeth. "And turn that down," he added acidly.

How he despised popular music...

"What did you get up to then?" the taxi driver had the nerve to ask, turning his head to eye Sherlock through the rear mirror.

"Watch the road," Sherlock replied testily.

What was worse was that pop music made life and love sound so simplified. Love was definitely not something which Sherlock thought could just 'fall into place' as many songs suggested. Not that he was suggesting for one moment that he was in love with John.

He smiled wryly to himself at the very suggestion.

Sexual lust was something wholly separate to love. Sherlock wanted John sexually-

He cringed and felt himself go hot all over despite the arctic temperature of the taxi's air-conditioning. It felt almost indecent to be thinking about such things in the company of another person. The images were still branded so brightly in his mind that it still sent shivers down his spine.

Nothing, certainly not pop music, had prepared him for what he had experienced at John's hand. No word like 'pleasure' or 'desire' could wholly describe the sensations that having John's mouth play with him had introduced to him in one wild, heated rush. He wasn't even aware that people really did those sorts of low, filthy things to each other.

Who could have thought that a straight-laced, no-nonsense man like John would know how to do those sorts of things? Who could have thought that Sherlock would have wanted them done to him?

Perhaps Sherlock should take what seemed to be pop music's advice and just put something sexually provocative on, get John drunk and ravish him.

He sat up straighter in his seat, torn between amusement and exasperation.

No. No, that was definitely classed as "sexual assault" and was best avoided.

When Baker Street came into view, Sherlock immediately felt his insides shift. His heart began pumping rapidly inside his chest and he thought wildly for a moment that maybe it wasn't too late to hole up somewhere for an hour or two.

He glanced up to the window of 221b, part of him expecting to see John watching him from the window. It was empty. John was probably watching television or writing his letter of resignation to Sarah. He wouldn't be packing because he wasn't really seriously considering leaving.

He couldn't be.

"Hey! Is this the right address or what?"

Sherlock jerked. The driver was staring at him impatiently.

"Ah- yeah," Sherlock said, giving himself a shake and feeling for his wallet.

He realised abruptly, as he pawed at both of his pockets that he hadn't brought it with him. He looked up at the driver. The driver almost looked as though he had been expecting it.

"Problem?" he said cynically.

"I..." Sherlock glanced up at the door of 221b, "seem to have left my wallet inside-"

"Yeah, look, I'm not an idiot," the driver said poisonously, retracting his hand. "Either you pay up or I take something as security until you get back."

Sherlock sniffed. "You will do nothing of the sort. You might steal it."

The cabbie crossed his arms in a surly fashion. "Or I'm calling the police. I'd say they'd want to keep tabs on a weirdo like you."

"Are you always so charming to your patrons, or am I just lucky?" Sherlock said icily. "Call the police if you wish. They are already perfectly aware of where I live." He opened the door. "If you wait here while I get my wallet, I will conveniently forget that you speed, run red lights and seem not to know the definition of the word 'stop'."

The driver glared at him, going red. "Oh, forget about it," he muttered, turning back around in his seat. "Just get out of my bloody cab."

"That's very generous of you," Sherlock said dryly.

He stepped out onto the footpath, shutting the door with a cheerful wave to the driver, who he knew was still glaring at him through the rear-view mirror.

He turned away and cast a grim look up and down the familiar black and white brick.

...

It took a moment for the slam of the front door to register in John's mind. He had been on the verge of falling asleep on the sofa.

It wasn't until he heard footsteps on the stairs that he shot upright, his head giving a protesting throb.

He gingerly touched his cheek. It was plastered with saliva and his hair was sticking flat to it. He hurriedly scraped it away, ruffling his hair into what he hoped was something vaguely natural.

"John?"

He looked up quickly, cricking his neck in the process. "Sherlock," he said hoarsely, clutching his neck and edging backwards slightly.

"I thought you might have already been gone," Sherlock said, dropping his coat onto the kitchen bench.

"No," he said stupidly. "I'm not."

He inwardly cringed at himself. For once it would have been nice to have something even vaguely witty to say.

Sherlock turned to him, but his eyes slid past him. John followed his gaze to the sofa.

Sherlock's eyes traced the length of the incline John's body had left there. There was something strangely sensual about the way his dark eyes caressed the leather and the place John's body had lain. John felt a twinge in the base of his stomach.

John felt a blush creep up his neck. "So, ah, where did you go?" he said, trying to convince himself that it wasn't trying to distract Sherlock away from the sofa.

"To the home of Terry Kirk," Sherlock replied calmly. He walked slowly towards it, an unreadable expression his face.

John wished he would stop staring at the sofa. He was sure that he could make out the print of John's ribs or arse or something equally embarrassing from the way he was staring at it.

"Uh, Sherlock," he said, feeling slightly frustrated at his own awkwardness. He shouldn't feel awkward; they were fully grown men not school children for God's sake.

Sherlock finally turned to him. If John had expected to see anything helpful there, he was sadly mistaken. Sherlock looked pale and neutral and unaffected. As always. "Yes, John," he said mildly.

John stared at him. "Is that all you have to say?" he said irritably.

"What would you like me to say?" Sherlock replied coolly.

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, thinking better of it. He gazed at Sherlock, trying not to feel disappointed. Trying not to feel like he cared what Sherlock did and whether Sherlock felt anything about the night before. Of course, that was impossible. He wasn't like Sherlock. He felt things.

"I don't know," John said, hating himself. "Aren't you curious?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The first sign he'd shown that he wasn't emotionally dead. "Curious about...?"

John stared at him in disbelief. He shook his head slightly. "Sherlock, you are aware that we... of what we did last night?"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said testily. "I was so in need of a reminder from you."

"Don't you feel anything at all?" John demanded, the blush in his cheeks becoming a flush of annoyance. "Don't you think that this might be affecting me?"

"I saw how it affected you," Sherlock said.

He took his usual place on the sofa, leaning against the arm with his long legs stretched out in front of him. John had seen him sitting like that more times than he could count; when Sherlock had a particularly difficult case to work on, when he was trying to fit things into a workable order in his head. John was another one of his problems, another thing he had to sort out.

"You're in denial," Sherlock said, stretching his arms behind his head. "You're embarrassed, shamed, humbled. You know what you want but you won't admit it to yourself."

"What do I want?" John asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Me, of course."

It was a quiet, blunt statement. John's insides contracted.

Sherlock smirked slightly, sliding his legs off of the sofa. "You're very bashful tonight."

"I'm not bashful," John said irritably. "I'm just... just..." He broke off, gesturing aimlessly.

"Why don't you stop thinking for a moment?" Sherlock said, standing up slowly.

John swallowed. "Don't you dare-"

The words hadn't even left his mouth before Sherlock's hand was cupping the back of his neck and the other was pressed against his back. Before he could adjust himself to the sudden warmth of Sherlock's slim, tall lines there was a mouth hungrily plying his open.

He clutched at Sherlock's waist to steady himself.

"Sherlmph-" he tried fruitlessly to protest as Sherlock's tongue forced its way into his mouth.

Sherlock's kiss was still clumsy and inexperienced, his lips moved with unrestrained fervour over his, trying hungrily to gain control of John's mouth. John didn't know whether he was responding or not, his mind was foggy with increasing desire, increasing need.

"Sherlock," he gasped, forcing himself to pull away.

He pried Sherlock's hands off of him and took a step back. Sherlock's mouth was red now. He looked perfect like this. Flushed and dishevelled. And aroused.

John bit his lip and felt an unmistakable rush of heat and blood to his groin. "We can't just-"

He broke off, closing his eyes for a moment to try and steady the dizziness in his mind.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock hadn't moved. He was still staring at him with a frustrating, knowing look on his face.

"We need to talk about this," John said staunchly.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock replied calmly.

John stared at him disbelievingly. "Do you still want me to move out?"

"Do _I _want-" Sherlock broke off with a scoff. "_You're_ the one that wanted to move out, don't ascribe your idiocy to me."

"Well, I thought it was the only way to... make things right," John said lamely. "I don't want to be a distraction."

"I think it would be detrimental to your mental health to remove yourself from Baker Street at this time," Sherlock said archly.

John raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Besides, I need your help. You're useful to me and I can't spare you."

"And I suppose what I want has little to do with it?" John said wryly, putting his hands on his hips.

"Of course it does," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "You don't want to leave Baker Street."

"It's remarkable how you seem to know what everyone wants without even asking," John said dryly.

"One of my many talents," Sherlock said, with a small smile.

He leant forward and kissed him again and this time John didn't even try to resist. John touched his waist, pressing his mouth harder against Sherlock's.

A moment later Sherlock abruptly broke away, leaning back to look at John.

"Show me how to pleasure you," he breathed, his face very pink.

"What?" John said, his brain pleasantly befuddled.

Sherlock put his lips close to John's ear. "Let me do for you what you did for me."

John felt a shudder go through his body. "Alright," he said meekly.

"Come to the bed," Sherlock said huskily, almost bringing John to his knees. "We don't want any intrusions."

John nodded blankly and followed Sherlock into the seldom used bedroom.

He glanced around vaguely. It was very dark and seemed sparsely decorated. Sherlock opened the blind slightly so that some sunlight was able to get in.

Sherlock turned to him, his face nonchalant. He gestured to the bed.

John looked at it. It was very neatly made, looking as though it hadn't been slept in for weeks.

He clumsily made his way to the bed; his body felt like it had decided it no longer wanted to function unless it was giving itself up to Sherlock's touches.

He sat down, leaning back on his hands. "I feel like an idiot," he said bluntly.

"That's the spirit," Sherlock said, kneeling on the end of the bed. "Lay on your back."

John didn't respond immediately. He had a flash in his mind's eye of being utterly at Sherlock's mercy, being controlled and used and pleasured and not being able to do anything about it. He gave a shuddery breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock was still kneeling close to him, watching him with the same steady, calculating gaze.

John finally nodded and laid back. He felt the bed depress beneath him and a moment later Sherlock was kneeling over him, one leg between his thighs and the other pressed beside his knee.

Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair, it felt clammy against his skin and it was shaking slightly. John slid his hand down to the band of his jeans, thumbing at his skin. He felt Sherlock's hand brush against his as he undid John's buttons slowly one by one, his hand teasingly close to John's erection.

John felt the air against his skin as his buttons were undone. He felt his eyes almost cloud over as Sherlock's cold, delicate fingertips touched the reactive skin over his pubic bone.

"I like you in this position," Sherlock breathed.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes stroking the length of John's body. They hovered over the triangle of fair hair visible beneath the undone buttons of his jeans.

John heeded the unspoken direction and arched his hips upwards, gripping onto his trousers. He paused for a moment, very aware of how hard he was and how obvious it would be when he exposed himself.

"What are you waiting for?" came Sherlock's voice, not altogether convincing in its' sharp tone.

John fixed his eyes onto the ceiling and, without letting himself hesitated, yanked his trousers down to his thighs. The theory was that if he did it quickly, like ripping a bandaid off, it would be less humiliating.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, his lust mingled with apprehension as he eyed John's length straining against a pair of unglamorous, tight grey boxer-briefs.

He ran his hand gently up the inside of John's exposed thigh. John bit his lip, his fingers tangling tightly into the covers. Sherlock pushed his hand up and under John's pullover, forcing it up around his waist and exposing John's slim, very white stomach.

"Why do you hide yourself under all these ugly clothes?" Sherlock said, almost to himself as he ran one finger down the trail of hair beneath his navel.

"Shut up," John gasped weakly.

He bent his knees slightly, parting his legs so Sherlock could kneel between them. "Tell me what to do to you," Sherlock said, very aware of his own erection but forcing himself to concentrate on the doctor who he had sprawled perfectly before him.

John blushed fiercely. "Tell you?"

"I'll never learn if you don't," Sherlock said dryly, touching the band of John's underwear.

John leant his head back on the pillow, seeming to be weighing up whether to retain what remained of his dignity or to give in to his body's impassioned demands.

"You're embarrassed," Sherlock noted.

John craned his neck to look at him. "Of course I am!" he said incredulously. "I barely even know you! And I'm lying here like a-"

He gestured vaguely to his sprawled legs and flattened his head against the pillow again with a slight laugh.

"For God's sake, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "I'm as attracted to you as you are to me! Do you think I'm sitting here judging you?"

He ran his hands up John's thighs, holding them firmly in his hands. He lowered his mouth the bulge of John's sex. He could see it was already damp.

John shivered beneath him. "Sher-"

Without waiting for John to protest, Sherlock slid a finger inside of John's underwear and pulled them down around his knees.

"Sherlock!" John said indignantly, trying to sit up but Sherlock pressed a hand against his chest, forcing him down flat.

"Shut up," Sherlock said coolly.

John's limbs felt like they had all seized up. Sherlock was watching him intently, his face frustratingly unaffected as he slid his fingers around John's already seeping length.

John lifted his hips slightly, almost unconsciously; unable to remember when he'd last had this treatment. Sherlock slowly rubbed John's shaft, sending jolts of pleasure rushing heatedly up John's crotch to pool in his stomach.

"O-oh," he stammered, biting his lip fiercely to keep from moaning aloud.

Sherlock drank in his friend's fraught expression as he turned weakly from side to side, trying fruitlessly to keep from betraying how obviously Sherlock's attentions affected him.

John's fingers dug deeper into the blankets as Sherlock began to rub him ever so slightly harder, his hand warm and wet from pre-cum. Sherlock's eyes were down on his work, though every so often they strayed up John's figure to his exposed stomach and then to his face to admire his friend's needy, flushed expression.

Sherlock grazed his finger ever so slightly over the head of John's cock, barely even hard enough for John to feel it but it was enough to extract a frantic, breathy noise from the doctor as he fought to keep silent.

Sherlock's eyes were blazing. Not just with lust but with a gleeful knowledge that he was learning more about his friend's body, his desires and lusts with a few slight touches than what he had learnt in their months together.

Finally he slowly leant forward, hunching his back as he gently touched his mouth against the leaking tip of John's cock. John's whole body shuddered; he threw his head back with a gasp.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock hesitated, looking up at his friend's frantic face.

"Don't stop!" John said desperately, throwing a hand up and clutching one of the bars of the bed stand.

Sherlock smirked slightly and lowered his mouth back to John's begging sex. He slid a hand around the base, gently rubbing it in time with his tongue's movements and the unsteady rocking of John's hips.

There was a heavy, heady scent about him. It smelt faintly of sweat, cologne, soap, deodorant and John's own particular scent. Sherlock decided that that was what sex smelt like. At the moment John was drenched in it. He looked divine on his back, his shirt and hideous pullover around his ribs and his own glorious figure free to be ravished by Sherlock's virgin caresses.

Sherlock could feel his own sex throbbing in a painful, protesting repetition as though it was begging again and again to be tended to. He ignored it. This was about John's pleasure, not his.

And at present he thought that for a beginner he was doing rather well by the look of John's very pink, damp face and the sound of his occasional muffled whimpers and grunts.

Sherlock slowly moved his hand down from the base of John's cock to the hot, damp area beneath it. He gently ran his fingers over it and as Sherlock had done the night before, he felt John spasm and knew that he was experiencing the same raw, almost painful shot of pleasure that Sherlock had when John had touched that part of his body.

"Uh-gods Sherlock," John panted, biting his lip against his mounting need to orgasm. "Please-please d-don't stop-"

Sherlock moved his mouth deeper down John's cock and brought his hand up from John's perineum to lightly touch John's ball sac. He touched it only very slightly. It felt like such a private, forbidden place to touch him. He almost wouldn't have blamed him if he had protested, but on the contrary he moaned audibly, thrusting his hips particularly hard and forcing his length deeper down Sherlock's throat than he had intended.

Sherlock choked slightly, hastily bringing his mouth off of John's cock in his surprise. John gave a needy groan, arching his whole body upwards. "Please, keep going," he gasped.

Sherlock hastily took it back in his mouth, rubbing John's balls with slightly more friction and moving his tongue with more precision up and down John's damp length.

John bucked his hips, finally dropping his hand down and treating Sherlock to a hapless moan that sent warm, hot shivers all over his body. "I'm... I'm..."

John gave another violent roll of his hips, throwing his head back with a whine. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling them roll back slightly in utter ecstasy. John gave a bodily contraction and warm liquid burst into Sherlock's mouth, taking him slightly by surprise.

He opened his eyes, drinking in the helpless, lost expression on John's face.

He felt John go limp underneath him. He was breathing so hard and fast that it was hard to believe that all he had been doing was thrashing about on his back with his cock buried in Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock let the softening member out of his mouth, feeling a trail of semen and saliva dribbled down his chin. He looked at John and swallowed.

John gave a small moan and let his head fall back limp on the pillow.

Sherlock wiped the dampness off his chin, feeling plastered with sweat. He could taste John's seed. It was warm and salty but not as disgusting as he would have thought.

Sherlock sat back on his knees, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of his boring, prim, matter-of-fact doctor looking debauched and damp and like he had just come off the worst with some sort of wild animal.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asked, aware that he sounded as though he was politely acquiring after John's health.

"Perfectly dead," John said in a muffled voice, still staring at the ceiling.

Sherlock watched John's chest rise and fall, his breathing falling into its regular rhythm. "I'm taking that to mean that I wasn't an entirely ineffective beginner?" Sherlock said mildly, allowing himself to feel smug.

John struggled to sit upright, to Sherlock's disappointment tugging his trunks up as he did, though he left his jeans pooled around his knees. "You were clumsy and inconsistent," he said bluntly. "So don't get too big a head."

"I'm so touched by your gratitude," Sherlock said in an affronted voice, turning to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Practice makes perfect," John said slyly.

Sherlock sniffed. "We'll see about that."

He got to his feet, wincing slightly at the sensation of his own, rather prominent arousal.

"Where are you going?" John said in disbelief.

"I have to call Finch. I have to speak to her again," Sherlock replied darkly, in a voice that suggested the Armageddon was upon them.

John frowned at him. "You're not seriously suggesting that you go without me?"

Sherlock turned to him, surprised. "Why would you want to come?"

John shrugged, struggling to the side of the bed and standing up. He pulled his jeans up. "To repay you for the morning's entertainment," he walked across to the door, buttoning himself as he went. "And who knows, maybe if you're good I'll teach you the finer points of wanking."

He disappeared outside with a grin.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said disdainfully, limping after him.

TBC


	9. Defective

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry about the late update. Bit of a stressful time, what with Christmas and NYE but hopefully you had a great one of both. I had an amazing NYE, drank way too much and was violently hung over but I bet I wasn't the only one lol. I hope you guys were far more responsible than me...

I'm much happier with this chapter than the last. I was in a romantic mood so it's a bit warm and gooey but hopefully you enjoy it. In the next chapter, they will get it on for real and stop all of this foreplay madness. Just to reassure you that smut is coming and the end of this chapter is a bit of teaser but it will be resolved lol. So I hope that puts your mind at ease xD

Thanks for your wonderful reviews and such. Much appreciated ;)

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Nine-_

John walked down to the road in a sort of dream state. His mind was a foggy blur. He hadn't had his cock sucked for a very long time, let alone by another man. By Sherlock Holmes.

They reached the curb. Sherlock cast a glance up and down the street, his sharp eyes seeking out an unengaged taxi while beside him John stared blankly across the road at the swarm of morning commuters.

The gravity of what he was engaging in with Sherlock hit him like an iron glove across his face. Suddenly, painfully he realised what he had done. The embarrassment and shame came upon him like a sudden illness.

He felt numb. He felt frozen. He stared blankly at the people scurrying to and fro opposite. They were almost all wearing business suits, many talking forcibly into mobile phones and using their briefcases as battering rams to navigate the sea of pedestrians. John almost felt as though their sliding glances towards him were teaming with disgusted suspicion. They knew what he had just indulged in with another man. Forthright, upright, uptight John Watson who lived his life by the book and wore Lowes sweaters.

"John?"

John gave a violent jerk. "What?" he said confusedly, turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock sent him a strange look from the door of a taxi he had apparently just hailed. John followed him in, feeling like his feet were two blocks of cement. He sat stiffly next to him, keeping his eyes forward and knowing that it was inevitable that at any moment Sherlock would notice his discomfort and then he would never hear the end of it.

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed immersed in his own thoughts for the moment. Out of the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock staring out of the window, his brow slightly lowered and his eyes fixed to one place on the window. He was deep in thought. He was trying to place something in his mind. John was the last thing he was concerned about.

And as he sat there, John would have been lying if he had denied that already his body was reacting to Sherlock's closeness and the memories of what they had engaged in just half an hour prior. It wasn't so much arousal as the sensation one might experience prior to arousal. It was a faint, warm pulse around his crotch. It was the ever so slightly heightened heartbeat. It was the feeling that a gentle fog was settling on his eyes as he sat there. It lulled him almost into a trance and he felt too weak to resist it.

He gave himself a shake. No. Not here. This was not the right place. This whole situation was wrong, was dangerous.

Sherlock still did not look at him. John glanced at him, wondering what he could possibly be so deeply engaged with when John felt like his brain had gone through a blender.

Too soon, the taxi pulled up opposite Finch's increasingly familiar abode and John forced every ounce of his willpower together to turn his thoughts from his confused humiliation and ashamed desire.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped out onto the road. John slid across the seat behind him but was almost immediately thrown back across it by Sherlock ducking back down inside the taxi door. He slammed it shut and forced John back.

"What's wrong?" John asked in alarm, craning to see over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Kirk," Sherlock replied. "Terry Kirk."

John leant across Sherlock's shoulder and caught a momentary glimpse of a balding head disappearing into a Porsche on the opposite side of the street. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"Terry Kirk is rather fond of publicity," Sherlock replied dryly. "I'd say that he would be fishing for another article."

"But Finch was the one that did all those stories about that woman he was shagging!" John said in disbelief. He sat back against the seat, suddenly conscious of Sherlock's shoulder pressed into his chest.

Sherlock turned to him with an almost appraising expression. "Some people's flaws force them to do unexplainable things."

John stared at him, slightly taken aback by the gravity behind this statement but Sherlock turned and left the taxi. John hastily followed him.

"Do you think he killed her?" he asked, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock's striding steps.

"Well, he's certainly stupid enough to botch something as simple as a faux suicide but it seems doubtful that he would be able to charm his way back into her house after all of the abuse and threats he showered on Joana following his fall from grace," Sherlock replied wryly. "I think that as much as he would have liked to see Joana suffer for what she did, he had neither the nerve nor the ability to carry it through."

They came to a halt at the door and Sherlock knocked. John felt his insides contract. This woman made him increasingly nervous. Part of him was certain that she would be able to tell that he and Sherlock had just been-

The door opened abruptly, Finch looked irate as she peered out of them. She was not quite her usual immaculate self. There were faint shadows under her eyes and her clothes were vaguely wrinkled as though she had put them on in a hurry.

"Oh!" her expression immediately changed when she saw them. "Mr. Holmes!" she smiled- or perhaps sneered was a more appropriate expression at John. "Dr Watson, how nice to see you again. You're looking very well."

"We're not here for a cosy chat," Sherlock replied brusquely, pushing past her.

John followed in a meeker fashion, though he was very aware of what she had done to him and why she had. She wanted to destroy Sherlock and she didn't give a damn who she made a scapegoat of in the process.

"What do you want now, Mr. Holmes?" Finch said wearily, closing the door and leading them both into the familiar drawing room. "In the future, _can_ you make an appointment? I'm really not in the habit of-"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, striding past her and staring around the drawing room in a restless manner.

John slid past her and stood awkwardly to one side, hoping to avoid notice. Unfortunately, she immediately turned her painted eyes onto him. "Oh, do sit down, dear," she said with a syrupy smile.

John did as he was told, taking a seat stiffly on the edge of the chaise-longue and watching Sherlock pace up and down the room in quiet frustration.

"You seem tense, sweetie," Finch remarked, leaning against the door and crossing her arms. "Why don't you sit down too?"

Sherlock stopped and turned to her. "Why the hell did you send me there?" he burst out, with surprising force.

John had never seen him lose his patience like that before. With Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson and anyone who presumed to get in his way maybe but never with a 'source', John supposed he could call them.

He glanced at Sherlock. Strange that the pressure should suddenly get to him now, of all times.

"I was being helpful," Finch retorted, crossing the floor and picking up a silver cigarette case from beside the chaise-longue. She fished out a cigarette and perched it between her plump, purple lips. "He's had a deranged sort of hatred for my daughter ever since I did that piece about him."

"But you neglected to mention that he was with you on the night of the murder," Sherlock retorted bitterly, much to John's surprise.

John looked quickly at Finch to see how she would respond. She looked unconcerned. She lit her cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the seat next to John. "Oh, please," she snapped, taking a drag and exhaling the smoke in one sharp line in front of her, "you think Kirk couldn't have someone do it for him? He might be an imbecile but he's a rich imbecile and he's always had friends in high places. Not all of them deserted him when he took the plunge."

"Are you suggesting that he hired some sort of hitman?" Sherlock snapped, staring at her with intense distrust.

"Oh, please," Finch replied, rolling her eyes, "I'm not supposed to make all the tough calls for you, Mr. Holmes. I can help you as far as people who knew my daughter are concerned but that's it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. "What about her husband?" he said quietly. "Mr. Shaw. Is he as squeaky clean as he seems? Is he capable of murder?"

Finch eyed him, the cigarette poised in front of her lips. "Thomas stuck with Jo through thick and thin. He stuck by her when she was London's most hated," she paused, taking a thoughtful puff of her cigarette. She turned her eyes briefly onto John, her eyes boring into him with an unreadable expression. She looked back at Sherlock, breathing the smoke out slowly. "But all men have their limits, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stared at her. His fingers twitched. John wondered whether he was thinking how satisfying it would be to place them around her neck. "Alright," he said quietly, "but if this is another wild goose chase-"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Finch said with a tinkling laugh, "it's not my information that's been bringing you back again and again," she looked at John again but this time with an almost poisonous relish. John swallowed but forced himself to hold her gaze. "Dr Watson, how do you put up with him? His mood swings, his total disregard for human life, his indifference to those he hurts in his race to the bottom?"

She smirked as John felt himself colour. "Sweet boy," she said patronizingly, turning back to Sherlock. "Shame on you, Sherlock. Leading such a nice, normal man astray and ruining his life in the process."

John felt his stomach drop. Sherlock's face went white with livid anger. "You conniving bitch," he said in barely louder than a whisper.

"Now, now," Finch laughed, "that's no way to speak to a lady. Especially a lady who has the power to singlehandedly ensure that your nice, normal fucktoy- I mean _associate _never works in London again."

John made a choking sound, taken aback by the violence in her voice. Her eyes flashed with vicious enjoyment as John blushed with humiliation and anger. He had to defend himself. Surely. But how? It would just make it worse.

Sherlock was watching Finch with cold, undisguised loathing. "Who do you think you are?" he said softly. "You're a hack. You're a carbon copy."

"So you have finally admitted it to yourself," Finch said in quiet satisfaction.

John looked from her to Sherlock, entirely confused. To his amazement, he swore he saw Sherlock's cheeks tinge pink. "I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said quietly.

He turned and went for the door. John followed him, still reeling both from Finch's attack and the almost unbelievable thought that Sherlock had been embarrassed by her.

"What was she talking about?" he said, as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied stonily.

He dug his hand into his pocket, subconsciously fingering his phone.

He went to walk down the stairs but John laid a hand firmly on his arm. Sherlock reluctantly turned to him. "John, don't mind anything that old witch says. She has no power within London. She can cause a slight stir but she could never do anything to harm your good name."

John was taken aback by the sagacity in which this was said. "I'm not really concerned that she thinks I'm your..." he swallowed, "fucktoy, but how can you keep trusting her when she's done nothing but lie to you?"

"To be perfectly honest," Sherlock replied grimly, "I have nothing else to go on."

...

As they approached Finch's house, Sherlock turned to John, his mind finally made up. "Look, John," he began, ignoring the flicker in his stomach as his friend's (lover's?) wide, blue eyes turned to him. He had been very silent the entire journey from Finch's. Sherlock cringed with fury when he thought of Finch's poisonous treatment of him. "Maybe you should just meet me at home."

"Why?" John said, surprised.

"I don't want..." he broke off, swallowing, "I don't want to put you in the firing line."

"How can I possibly be any more in the firing line than I already am?" John said blankly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "John, please just go home."

He was infuriated to see a flash of hurt go through John's eyes. A moment later it was gone.

"Fine," he said, clearly stung.

He looked away, staring hard at the back of the taxi driver's head. Sherlock sighed inwardly and stepped out onto the curb. He stood back and watched as the cab slid away, knowing that inside John was feeling wretched and rejected.

But what could he do about it? He was doing it for John's own good. Surely he could see that. And if he couldn't... Well, he couldn't be held responsible for other people's inane emotions.

He sighed and went up to Finch's door. He was back where he started. He was back to square one.

Sighing, he rang the bell and waited. Shortly after he heard footsteps and the door opened but to Sherlock's surprise it was not Thomas Shaw.

Sherlock blinked into the face of a pretty blonde woman, wondering stupidly for a moment if he was at the right house. "Ah, sorry," he said, frowning at her, "I need to speak to Thomas Shaw."

"Oh," she said, looking him up and down, "sorry, who are you?"

"I could ask you the same question," Sherlock replied, pressing past her into the hallway.

"Excuse me!" she exclaimed, flattening herself against the wall and clearly under the impression he was some sort of brash and highly imprudent housebreaker. "What the hell do you think you're doing! My boyfriend's in the next room-"

"I'm not a crook," Sherlock snapped at her. "Where's Shaw? I'm here about his wife."

He was satisfied to see her colour.

"Oh," she said in a mortified voice. "This... this way."

She hurried past him to a door down the hallway. Sherlock strode past her into the room.

Shaw was sitting at a desk with his back to him. "What's the problem, Yvonne?"

Sherlock looked at the blonde woman sharply. She edged forward. "Darling, a man's here to speak to you about..." she cleared her throat, "Joana."

Shaw spun around like someone had slapped him across the face. He stared at Sherlock for a moment with undisguised horror but almost immediately smoothed his countenance, his eyes flickering towards the woman still hovering uncomfortably beside Sherlock. "Yvonne, ah, would you make Sherlock a cup of tea?"

Yvonne nodded hurriedly and disappeared, with one last frightened glance at Sherlock.

"She seems nice," Sherlock said coldly, glancing about the office. "Almost as pretty as your wife."

"My wife's dead, detective," Shaw replied sharply. "Yvonne is just an old friend."

"Do you usually sleep with old friends, Mr. Shaw?" Sherlock replied. "The lipstick on your collar and the fact that she has several pairs of shoes stored in the hallway would suggest that perhaps you do."

Shaw coloured. "What I do in my private life is none of your business, Mr. Holmes-"

"No, but if it affects my case it becomes my business," Sherlock replied, not quite knowing why he was so annoyed by Shaw's disloyalty. "Your mother-in-law doesn't seem to have very much faith in you."

Shaw gave a bitter laugh. "I must confess that I do not hold Ms Finch's "faith" in high regard."

"So you had no part in your wife's death," Sherlock said quietly, watching him closely.

"I have told the police again and again," Shaw said exasperatedly, "I was in Portsmouth! I can give you a list of the people who were there with me. Call any of them yourself and they'll tell you the same."

Sherlock nodded. He had never doubted Shaw's alibi. As questionable as his morals may be, that didn't make him a murderer. He had come for an entirely different purpose. Something which he hadn't been able to shift from his mind for quite a while.

"Just one more question," he said pleasantly, absentmindedly sliding his hand into his pocket and touching his phone. "I am wondering whether you are aware that it is an offence to tamper with evidence in a murder scene?"

The colour drained from Shaw's face. For a moment he was silent and then finally he seemed to gather the ability to speak. "I wonder whether you are aware that it is also an offence to break into a crime scene, a crime scene which is also someone's home and remove evidence without a warrant," he said coldly, regaining his poise.

Sherlock watched him. It was clear what Shaw was suggesting. He knew that Sherlock had broken into the crime scene. He knew he had found the glasses. But Sherlock had no idea how.

Before he could demand this of Shaw, he had stood, clearly hoping to get Sherlock out of his house. "Look, you're speaking to the wrong person," he said with almost an edge of desperation to his voice. "I didn't hurt Joana. I wouldn't. I knew what she was involved with. Do you think I would have killed her just over that?"

"People can do strange things when they're jealous," Sherlock replied.

"No," Shaw replied firmly. "Not me."

"Your wife angered a lot of powerful people," Sherlock said wryly.

"But she stopped all of that nonsense months ago," Shaw replied impatiently, ushering Sherlock towards the door.

Sherlock allowed himself to be shepherded down to the front door. He stopped at the door and turned back to Shaw. "Do you think that all people are able to forget their resentment when they are betrayed and humiliated?"

Shaw stared at him, silent for a moment. He bit his lip and glanced around. "Yes, my wife angered many powerful people. Do you think I want to draw their attention to myself?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You are going to let your wife's murder go unsolved because you're worried you might have a brick thrown through your window."

"You don't understand," Shaw said, the desperate edge returning to his voice. "I can't. I loved Joana but she's dead and I... I have to think about myself," he opened the door for Sherlock. "And Yvonne."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's nice to see that chivalry isn't dead."

He stepped outside and descended the stairs, hearing the door close behind him.

...

When Sherlock arrived home he found John at the kitchen bench, passing his mobile from hand to hand.

He glanced up as Sherlock came in. "Well, Sarah's let me go," he said dully.

"What?" Sherlock replied sharply, stopping where he was. "How can she do that?"

"My performance was not up to standard apparently," John replied, he moved a hand to a newspaper sitting folded at the end of the table, "but I have a hunch it might have something to do with this."

He tossed it into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock opened it to where it had been folded. He scanned his eyes down the page. Halfway down he felt his stomach give a strange dip inside of him.

Another shot of Baker Street but this time they had even managed to catch sight of John and Sherlock making their way outside, Sherlock halfway down the stairs and John behind him, apparently locking the door with his back to the camera. Small mercies.

The article itself was brief but effectively poisonous. It alluded to John's 'long-time girlfriend Sarah Grier' and his 'flirtatious interludes' with Sherlock which soon led to their 'deciding to merge their very different lives into one, under the age-old stones of Baker Street, an ironic mask to their misunderstood but nonetheless passionate relationship'. Sherlock felt the slow release of fury run through him like adrenaline through his veins.

He gripped the page and tore it out of the newspaper and through it into the unlit fire grate. "Fuck her," he said under his breath. "Fuck her."

He turned back to John. He looked incredibly miserable.

"What?" Sherlock said abruptly, inexplicably annoyed by John's hangdog expression. "Were you still in love with her or something?"

"I was never in love with her," John retorted, frowning at him. "That doesn't mean I want her to be humiliated in front of her friends though."

Sherlock unravelled his scarf from his neck and threw it onto the sofa along with his coat.

He could feel John's eyes taking in the length of his figure as it was released from its constraints. He looked at him; the lust was so obvious in John's eyes. It was so obvious in the stiff, uncomfortable manner he was clinging onto the table, his mouth a thin, set line.

"Not everything is as simple as we are led to believe," he said in a raw voice. "You can fight your body's needs, you can even starve yourself of them," he laughed humourlessly. "I would know. But you can't delude yourself."

John looked fraught. He knew what he wanted. God knew why he wasn't taking it. Sherlock would have given it to him freely. He wanted it too. He wanted John. Like nothing else he had ever experienced before. It was a strange and frightening sensation.

"What am I supposed to do?" John said in a soft, broken voice. "I don't know what to do."

Sherlock hesitated and then he slowly went towards him. He gently grasped the soft material of John's pullover and tugged him upright. John stood without resistance. Sherlock gently cupped his chin with his fingers and felt John's hands move softly over his shoulders. "Kiss me," Sherlock breathed, touching his nose against John's and breathing in his scent like cigarette smoke. "Kiss me and stop thinking."

John leant upwards and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's. Sherlock slid his hands around John's back and then lower, grasping his waist tightly and willing him harder and closer against him. John whimpered softly against his lips, his fingers soft and slightly damp against his neck.

"Shush," Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers up and down John's back.

When they broke apart, John's lips looked wonderfully plundered; red, plump and wet. Taken. Branded.

Against his thigh he could feel the bulge of John's erection. John looked up at him, still so uncertain and still desperately repressing that part of him which yearned to break free. If he could just release it. What Sherlock wouldn't have given to see John give in to it.

He brushed his mouth up the rim of John's ear, feeling him quiver against him. "I want to give myself to you," he said, infuriated to find that his voice trembled.

John looked at him sharply. "You don't know what you're saying," he said hollowly. "Once it's gone, it can never be replaced. Can you live with yourself?"

"Can I live with myself, knowing that I lost it to another man?" Sherlock asked harshly. "Or to you?"

John was silent for a moment. He lowered his eyes, his eyelashes fanned out in damp clumps. "Both," he breathed finally.

"There is no other person on earth who has ever stirred these sensations within me," Sherlock said bluntly, knowing no other way to state such a painful truth. "I have lived all my life cold and sterile," he raised a gently shaking hand and brushed the hair back from John's forehead. "But so have you."

John met his eye. Sherlock was lost. He couldn't think. He couldn't deduct what that blush to John's cheeks meant, that heighted flutter to his pulse, that warm needy look to his blue eyes. He felt overwhelmed.

He watched John's lips move; it seemed an age before the words left them. "I want you."

Sherlock almost swayed where he stood at the sound of those simple words. He cleared his throat, shaking his head furiously in an attempt to set his thoughts into a logical order. "Now," he heard himself say, in barely more than a breathy mew.

He could hardly comprehend that this body, so overwhelmed by lust and attraction, was his. He had always thought of himself as a mind trapped in a useless, repulsive body but his body was reacting, it was working the way he had been told men's bodies worked. Perhaps he wasn't defective.

John untangled himself from Sherlock's arms with a businesslike cough. "Well, I should probably shower before we... we..." he turned pink and glanced away.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He was only just beginning to realise what they were about to do himself. He was about to give his virginity, treasured for over thirty years, to a man who he had known a few short months and who, though not remarkable in intelligence, had begun something violent inside of him.

He could only wonder why.

He felt himself nodding to John and moving towards the door of the bedroom. He didn't know how he would prepare himself for the assault on his body he knew was coming.

He closed the door behind him and glanced across the bedroom. Dirty sunlight was streaming in from outside. He closed the blinds tightly, shutting every last inch of outside daylight from the room. He turned the lamp on the bedside table on and stared vainly about for what else he could do to the room to make it more than just a bed between a wardrobe and a vanity.

He smoothed the covers and lay down upon the bed, stretching his legs out in front of him. He looked down at himself with cynical dubiety. John would probably be horrified by what he found beneath the protective shell of Sherlock's clothing.

Sherlock sat upright and unbuttoned his shirt. Button by button his pale chest was revealed, completely hairless except for a patch between his nipples and a beeline of dark hair leading from his bellybutton downward.

He let his shirt slide down onto the floor and stared down at his flat, white stomach. Devoid of muscle, devoid of colour or masculine shape.

He leant down and pulled off his shoes and threw them down to the floor. He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down his thighs. Beneath were a pair of grey boxer briefs clinging onto slender, pale thighs and protruding obscenely with his obvious lust.

Sherlock leant against the pillows, staring down at his flat, pale figure with an appraisal that was sure to end in disappointment. He wanted John to want him, but he saw nothing to admire in his useless, unorthodox figure. His slim, slender, almost feminine lines.

He slid his fingers almost absentmindedly under the band of his underwear and gently touched his manhood. It gave a protesting throb, almost begging him not to tease. He slid his fingers around himself. It felt strange, vaguely pleasurable but nowhere near the explosive pleasure that John's touches wrought.

He vaguely stroked himself, wondering how long it would take him to make himself orgasm. Perhaps a minute. He was so painfully hard and his mind kept tracing the outline of John's face. There was no logical reason that he should be so attracted to John. He wasn't as attractive as some of the men Sherlock had had cause to meet, he wasn't as brilliant as others or as suave and sophisticated as yet others but there was something in his credulous, sober, reliable goodness that made Sherlock feel unworthy of his touch.

He gripped himself harder, pressing his other hand to his mouth to keep from crying out at the surge of heat that rushed to the tip of his sex as he rubbed it. This was what it would feel like if he took John. Tight, hot, damp. This was what _he _would feel like to John.

He threw his head back against the pillow with a moan. The sensations were too much.

He felt a hand gently touch his wrist. He jerked upright, flushing with humiliation as he looked up at John's equally pink countenance.

Sherlock blinked in confusion as John slid his hand down his stomach, and gently under the band of his underwear, settling his hand over Sherlock's now motionless fingers. He lowered his mouth to Sherlock, kissing him gently. Sherlock felt a surge of groggy desire, to be taken from above, on his back like this. It gave him a strange sensation of being at John's mercy, at being about to be used and played with. He couldn't help but arch his back at the thought, the heat pooling around his groin was becoming too much.

He groaned into John's mouth as he began to stroke him, sliding his fingers underneath Sherlock's. Sherlock's hand went limp. He pulled it with difficulty from under the band and rested it on his stomach, conscious of how his breathing was shallow and short and unconsciously in time with John's slow, agonizing movements up and down his cock, his fingers straying sometimes on the head and other times sliding down damply to touch the heated part of him below his straining sex.

When it became too much and the pressure began to build unbearably, he found himself moaning audibly into John's lips. He could feel John's smirk as he took Sherlock's mouth firmly with his fingers and pressed his tongue deep inside of Sherlock's mouth.

"Ughh Gods," Sherlock said helplessly, bucking his hips and feeling the warm dampness rush out between his thighs. "John..." he said huskily, clutching at John's collar, not wanting to let him go.

John smiled wryly at him, his eyes roaming with relish over his friend's damp, flushed features. "God, you're beautiful," he breathed.

Sherlock didn't know whether he had meant to say it but the words sent a shiver down his spine, the words on John's lips sounded so perfect.

John sat back on his heels, sliding his hand out from Sherlock's underwear. He watched Sherlock, his eyes heated. Sherlock gazed back at him, too overwhelmed by gentle, simmering lust to resist when John tugged his underwear down his thighs. All the while his eyes remained on Sherlock's; all the while they reassured him that he was in good hands. And he was beautiful.

TBC


	10. Perfect

A/N: Sorry about the delay. You may have heard about the huge floods which have been happening in a place called Brisbane, Queensland? Well... guess where I live xD Hahahahahaaaaaaa. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE. Nahhh I kid. But it has been fairly dramatic and it hasn't helped the process of my story. It's very sad. I mean this is exactly why you don't build capital cities around huge, tidal rivers but still... sad. You'd think they would have gotten a clue from the HUGE flood that happened in 1893 but no...

But anyway. Moving forward. In other news. SHERLOCK AND JOHN FINALLY SHAG. Yay. I hope this isn't a disappointment. First time sex scenes are honestly no fun when I write them because I'm like well obviously they have to be in some form of pain and humiliation. I'm a bit of a realist there. Or maybe not xD Anyway, sorry about this hyperactive author note. It's 6:00am and I've had no sleep and half of my city is under water. WHAT CAN YOU DO.

ADDITIONALLY. Thank you so much to reviewers. Excuse me if I didn't reply to your review or replied to it twice by mistake. I do read every review and appreciate them and I will try to reply to every review in the future because really it's the least I can do when I inflict THIS on you.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Ten_

John finally allowed his eyes to trail down from Sherlock's face to the rest of his body. He drank in every inch of his figure; his shirt was yanked up around his armpits and his jeans and underwear were wrapped tightly around his thighs and he looked exquisite. John wasn't aware he could feel such intense desire for another man but the desire he felt as he ran his eyes up the length of Sherlock's straining sex dwarfed anything he had ever experienced before.

Sherlock struggled onto his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing yet more of his slender, pale figure. His nipples were hard from the cold and from desire and goosebumps had erupted over his arms. John couldn't resist sliding his hands around Sherlock's waist and pulling him close to him so he could feel Sherlock's cock press into his stomach. He was aware that he was getting Sherlock's ejaculate all over him but he didn't care.

He could feel Sherlock's fingers trembling as they moved under his sweater. He gently touched Sherlock's waist, wordlessly reassuring him. Sherlock met his eye, his gaze was hazy with his desire but his features were still remarkably controlled. John couldn't help imagining what he would look like when he climaxed, when all of his steely resolve was forced out of him.

He let Sherlock pull his sweater off of him, feeling the sting of cold air even though his t-shirt as it was yanked over his head and deposited on the carpet. He gripped the hem of his t-shirt but found himself hesitating.

Sherlock's eyes were heated as they watched him, waiting for him to reveal himself completely. John felt humbled in Sherlock's presence. He was so perfect, so divinely designed. John felt deeply flawed and unworthy of his attentions, let alone his affection.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said hoarsely, his hands resting on John's hips.

"I..." John broke off, biting his lip, "I... nothing-"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "What are you frightened of?"

John hesitated, forcing himself to hold Sherlock's fierce, steady gaze. "That you'll be disappointed," he said frankly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment and then gently moved his hands up to the hem of John's t-shirt. Wordlessly, he gently pulled it up. John hesitantly raised his arms and allowed Sherlock to remove it completely.

John's body stung in the cool air, as much from excitement as from the cold. He forced himself to meet Sherlock's eye, resolved to see the disappointment there but Sherlock's eyes were still veiled. He was looking at John's body; John could almost feel his gaze as he let his eyes wander down his chest to the band of his trousers.

John jerked in surprise when, without warning, Sherlock touched his shoulder and then, slowly and carefully, let his hand move down the curve of John's collarbone to his chest and then to his stomach. John was more than aware of his broader figure; he didn't have Sherlock's perfect slender form.

Sherlock's fingers trailed down to the delicate skin beneath his navel. Gently, he slid two fingers underneath the band of John's trousers. The breath caught in John's throat as Sherlock's fingers came teasingly close to his aching arousal.

"You're perfect," Sherlock said at length, in a voice so even and blunt that it suggested he was stating something so obvious it was almost pointless to mention it.

He pulled his fingers from John's trousers and moved them instead to the buttons, bulging slightly from John's obvious erection. Sherlock stroked it gently, obviously aware that his touch was torturous but choosing not to notice as he gazed nonchalantly at his friend... Or was it lover now?

"May I undress you?" he asked with admirable poise.

John could only nod dumbly and bite his lip viciously to keep from moaning as Sherlock's fingers clumsily undid the buttons on his trousers and slid under the band to remove them.

"Perhaps..." Sherlock's voice sounded slightly breathless now, "perhaps we should stand."

John saw the logic in this but wasn't certain whether he could walk without collapsing.

He gathered what he could of his strength and struggled off of the bed to his feet. Sherlock did the same. His jeans slid limply down to his shins. Sherlock glanced at them, as though he had completely forgotten that he had still had them twisted around his lower body.

He placed a hand firmly on each side of John's trousers and, kneeling as he did, pulled them slowly down John's thighs. The sensation of the restraint being worked so gradually down his body was almost painful; John tilted his head back with an unsteady breath, trying to keep from letting any sound leaving him when he felt like crying out.

His underwear slid down a few inches, resting low around his hips. Sherlock pulled his trousers down around his knees and glanced up at John with an expression that almost took him aback with its raw sexuality. Perhaps it was inevitable that, horny as he was, he would find everything about Sherlock irresistible at this moment in time, but there was something about Sherlock's mouth when it was slightly open, about the way his hair had tumbled into his eyes and his cheeks were flushed that made him sexier than John had even thought possible.

"Sherlock..." he heard himself say in a voice so frail and breathless that he could hardly believe it were his.

Sherlock either didn't hear him or pretended not to. With his eyes still raised to meet John's, he leant forward and pressed his mouth against the mound of John's sex. John's hand gripped Sherlock's hair almost on its own accord, he moaned before he could stop himself and rolled his hips forward, pressing his cock harder against Sherlock's mouth.

He could feel saliva and pre-cum beginning to seep through his underwear. He tried to loosen his grip in Sherlock's hair, not wanting to hurt him.

Sherlock gripped John's thighs with his hands and, almost with vicious purpose, licked John's cock though the material.

John could almost have come right there. The sensation was almost too much, and it had been completely unexpected. He gave a strangled cry and tried to refrain from clawing at Sherlock's scalp.

He heard something inaudible leave his mouth, in which Sherlock's name was mingled. Sherlock gave an almost satisfied laugh, and he stood, to John's disappointment.

He went to the bed and sprawled against the head, his jeans still hanging around his ankles. "Well," he said, cocking an eyebrow, "let's not dawdle."

John could almost have hit him if he hadn't wanted to shag him with an almost excruciating passion. He clumsily followed him, hardly able to walk with his trousers still twisted around his lower thighs and his legs themselves feeling like they had lost all of their strength to move. He glanced down; there was a damp patch around the bulge of his cock from Sherlock's saliva and his own fluid.

He unsteadily knelt over Sherlock, yanking Sherlock's jeans and underwear off one of his ankles. Sherlock put a hand on the back of his neck and pulled his mouth against his, hungrily plying John's lips apart.

John hesitated, feeling Sherlock's tongue lap at the inside of his lip and then deeper inside his mouth.

Sherlock broke away, his lips hovering tantalizingly close. "Aren't you going to deflower me?" he growled.

"I can't deflower you when you're in that position," John said in a low voice. "I'm not a contortionist."

Sherlock chuckled. "You have my permission to manoeuvre me into whatever... _position _you find most comfortable."

John smiled and, placing his hands on Sherlock's waist, tugged him firmly down the pillows onto his back. Sherlock blinked up at him in surprise as John returned to his position kneeling over him so he could have a bird's eye view of Sherlock's deliciously vulnerable position.

"You're going to take me on my back?" he said, sounding a little affronted.

"The position suits you very nicely," John replied lightly, delighting in the blush that was coming across Sherlock's features. "Everything is so much clearer when you can see it from above."

Sherlock tutted impatiently.

John sat back on his heels and allowed himself to fully savour Sherlock's position and his body. Sherlock's cock was straining magnificently from his body; the tip was damp and flushed, below the tussle of dark pubic hair. Below was Sherlock's entrance, puckered and pink and slightly sore looking.

He looked at Sherlock, who had lifted his head to look at him. "I've never done this before," John said lamely, as though he hoped that would excuse any horrible mistakes he made from here on in.

Sherlock stared at his newly acquired lover, almost too aroused to particularly care what John did, as long as he put his cock inside of him- and soon. The possibility that it might hurt was a distant concern.

"Well, if you're expecting me to give you a blow by blow account of how to sodomize me I'm afraid I cannot oblige," he said dryly, feeling increasingly impatient for John's touch. "Touch me," he added in a rush.

"What?" John said, with typical obtuseness.

"Touch. Me," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Honestly, how did men this stupid even get laid?

John looked startled but obliged. He slid a damp palm around Sherlock's cock and stroked it. Sherlock rocked his hips upward with a strangled moan. God, this just felt better every time John did it.

"I..." John broke off, looking embarrassed, "I saw a movie once..."

Sherlock would have replied with something sarcastic but he couldn't seem to speak while John's hand was slowly caressing his length up and down. Instead he made a sound between a gurgle and a groan and bucked his hips in a desperate attempt to create greater friction against John's hand. John seemed to know what he was trying to do; he purposely slowed his movements until they were teasingly gentle.

"I need to prepare you," John said abruptly, looking fraught.

Sherlock nodded without knowing what John was talking about. To his dismay, John's hand left him. But the loss was almost immediately forgotten and the protest died on his lips as he watched in fascination as John stuck his index finger into his mouth, coating it with saliva. Sherlock's sex gave an impatient twinge. The sight was strangely sexual.

John paused, looking at him with an almost guilty expression. "Try and relax," he said awkwardly, blushing fiercely.

He firmly parted Sherlock's legs further, Sherlock felt his wet finger on the inside of his thigh.

Sherlock stared at him. "What are you-"

Without warning, there was a sudden and intense explosion of pain and it took Sherlock a moment to realise what John had done. "J-John-" he spluttered, clawing at the covers of the bed.

"Sorry," John replied, sounding breathless.

He didn't remove it and Sherlock almost cried out as he slowly slid in a second. "John..." he was conscious of how his voice sounded like a whimper but it was more painful than he had imagined.

"Shhh," John said softly, placing his other hand on Sherlock's thigh, "it'll get better."

Sherlock nodded, clutching harder at the covers and unable to comprehend that John's fingers were inside of him.

"I'm going to move them," John said, seeming enviably calm as he gazed down at him, "it'll hurt but it'll make it easier when I..." he swallowed slightly, "fuck you."

Sherlock could only nod. The pain mingled with the intense pressure pooled around his cock was almost unbearable.

John slowly, gently scissored his fingers, seeming very conscious of the discomfort Sherlock was experiencing. Finally, he slid them out of Sherlock's stretched entrance.

John's fingers were still damp with his saliva.

He exhaled heavily, leaning back on his knees. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded, spreading his legs further until they almost ached and sinking his fingers into the covers.

Wordlessly, John touched his thigh with his left hand and pressed the tip of his cock against Sherlock's entrance. John gave a taut moan, pushing it harder and painfully against him. "Ugh, Sherlock," he gasped, throwing his head back as his fingers gripped Sherlock's skin harder.

"Please," Sherlock breathed.

John's grip on his thigh tightened and the next moment Sherlock felt the strange sensation of something entering his body. The pain was like nothing he'd experienced before. It felt like he was being torn into two.

"Oh, God," he moaned, pressing his head back into the pillows and clinging desperately onto the blankets.

He felt something damp trickle down from his entrance and was more than aware that it was probably blood. It felt like his body was being violently trespassed upon. John was watching him, with a look of concern that was almost completely marred by a much clearer expression of burgeoning ecstasy.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock," he panted, his nails pressed painfully into Sherlock's skin as he finally pushed himself completely inside of him.

Sherlock gasped in pain, hardly able to breathe. He felt dampness around his eyes and fiercely blinked it away. "John..."

John was breathing roughly, the effort of refraining from indiscriminately fucking Sherlock obviously intense. "Are you alright?" he managed to say. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Sherlock replied angrily, bucking his hips defiantly. "Fuck me."

John looked startled. "But-"

"Fuck me," Sherlock snapped.

John was hardly in a position to refuse. He gently began to rock in and out of Sherlock. His movements began slow and measured but it was increasingly difficult to maintain that pace.

Sherlock gave a soft whimper, angrily turning his head to muffle it from John's ears. "Ah," he gasped.

The pain gradually reduced to a vague aching sensation and then, almost without warning, as John rocked again inside of him there was a sudden, taut burst of pleasure. He felt it deep inside of him; it was mirrored by a sudden surge up his cock. He couldn't prevent a small moan from leaving his lips.

John was clearly taken by surprise and almost slowed his pace at the sound of Sherlock's cry.

"Don't stop!" Sherlock burst out, throwing up a hand to John's chest.

John obeyed, impelling himself harder into Sherlock. Again, his cock hit that strange, deep place inside of Sherlock and again Sherlock was filled with an almost overwhelming heat.

Each time John's hips rolled forward and his sex moved up inside of him there was an intense wave of heat and pleasure that rushed through his stomach to the tip of his cock. He gazed up at John, his fingers curling and uncurling against John's slightly damp stomach. John's face was arranged into something that in any other situation would have signified agony.

Sherlock was fascinated by the taut, flushed expression on his friend's face, knowing that something similar was being forced onto his every time John moved inside of him.

"John..." he said breathlessly, without being aware of speaking.

The pressure felt like it was mounting, his cock was aching and pulsing in a painful repetition, each throb felt like it was begging for release. The base of his stomach was swirling with a confused mass of pressure and mounting pleasure; it felt like it was pushing down against his privates, engulfing his entire lower-half.

He tilted his head back, the sensations fast overcoming him. He was losing his ability to control his speech, his movement. "Oh J-John-" he moaned, completely unable to stop himself.

John panted as he thrust inside of him, increasingly roughly. "Uh-Gods-" he garbled, with every violent movement of his hips.

Sherlock, almost without warning, knew he was about to climax. He moaned helplessly, one hand twisted into the covers and the other pressed against John's chest. He felt John's hand, sticky and damp with sweat, slide around his straining, aching manhood and that was all it took.

With a strangled, almost animalistic cry, Sherlock bucked his hips forcefully against him. "J-John I'm- _Oh-"_

He felt the rush of heat go through him like lava and John's name left his lips again, in a desperate moan as his seed burst between John's fingers and onto his own chest.

John gave a guttural groan and thrust once more into Sherlock and Sherlock was vaguely, numbly aware of the sensation of John's orgasm inside of him, as the dampness rushed between his legs. Sherlock collapsed limp against the bed and moments later John fell against him, his cock still buried inside of him.

Sherlock couldn't move for exhaustion and was only just realising how his legs ached. He could feel John's heart beating rapidly against him and his own was beating almost as fast.

For what could have been a few minutes or half an hour, they remained as they were in silence, both still struggling to comprehend what they had just done. Slowly they felt their breathing returning to its natural rhythm and their heartbeats.

Finally, after what felt like an age of silence, John moved off of Sherlock and fell limply down beside him on his back. His trousers were still bunched around his ankles and his legs were trembling slightly with the effort of holding his weight.

Beside him Sherlock flattened himself against the bed.

John didn't dare look at him. He didn't want to see the expression on his face. He couldn't stand to think he would see disappointment or regret. His own orgasm had been perfect. The sight of Sherlock's body, knowing that he was inside of him and that his movements had given Sherlock pleasure had been perfect.

With these thoughts still stewing in his pleasure dazed mind, he felt Sherlock's hand, still clammy with perspiration, slide into his beside him. He didn't look at him; he didn't want to break the spell of what this meant.

He felt Sherlock's fingers thread through his, firmly clinging to him.

Wordlessly, silently John knew that this meant that Sherlock didn't regret it, didn't regret what they had done, didn't regret him.

_TBC_


	11. Bitchy Old Women

A/N: *Insert Chumbawamba here* Hello, dear friends and foes. Mostly friends I do hope xD I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, your reviews and your good wishes. Things are improving! The sunshine is back and we're all getting back to our feet.

I really don't know how to thank you. So here's Bilbo's speech from Lord of the Rings.

No, I jest. I hope that this chapter repays you excellent and admirable hobbits in some small part. Enjoy, and I hope that if you've been affected by the floods that you and your family and your house are safe.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Eleven-_

Sherlock awoke so suddenly that he almost felt like he had been slapped across the face. He lay motionless, gradually becoming aware of the warmth beneath the cacoon of covers and the dull but not overwhelmingly painful throb from where John had taken him. It was a faint ache, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

He could feel John clinging to him, his arms around his waist and his chest pressed against his. Their legs were entwined in a slightly sweaty tangle beneath the covers, pulled up around their waists. Sherlock could feel John's knee pressed gently against his crotch. He had to resist the urge to rub himself against it, just to see if it would wake John.

John's face was almost childlike when he was asleep. His brow, which was so often furrowed with anxiety, was smooth. The premature lines across his face seemed to disappear and the shadows under his eyes appeared less dark.

Sherlock gently, carefully touched his thumb to John's mouth. He could feel John's breath warm and steady against his skin. He moved his hand with some difficulty and touched John's cheek. It was cold. He cupped it with his palm to warm it.

He felt John stir against him with a drowsy moan, moving his head slightly against Sherlock's hand. Sherlock hastily withdrew it, watching as John's eyes fluttered open.

Gazing at his wakening bed-mate, Sherlock was very pleased that John would never know how he had fawned over him while he was asleep. He didn't want him getting a big head.

John blinked up at him, his eyes looking strikingly blue at this time of the morning contrasted against his skin, pale from sleep. "Sherlock," he said thickly, stretching against him with a moan that made the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end. "What t-t-time is it?" he said through a yawn.

"I wouldn't have a clue," Sherlock replied, refraining from smiling in what he knew would be a daft fashion. "Why? Do you have a previous engagement?"

John laughed; Sherlock felt it vibrate against him through his chest. "Nothing that can't be rescheduled," he said, pressing his lips against Sherlock's.

"Your lips are dry," Sherlock said against his mouth, pulling a face at him. "And make sure you brush your teeth in future before you presume to slobber all over me."

John retaliated by sticking his tongue in his mouth, his hands tightening on Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock pressed his hands to John's back, urging his whole figure against his. He could feel the heat and blood rushing to his crotch. If he kept up this pace he was going to get a blazing erection before breakfast.

Their ministrations were interrupted by the unmistakeable, shrill call of Sherlock's phone, still lying on the floor with their clothes.

John forced himself to break away. "I suppose you should get that," he breathed.

"Why?" Sherlock said, leaning forward to reclaim his mouth. "They'll leave a message. It can't be all that important."

"You're in the middle of a case," John said huskily, leaning back to avoid Sherlock's lips engulfing his again. "Besides, we shouldn't be carrying on like this at this time of the morning..." he added weakly as Sherlock turned his attention to his neck instead. "Sherlock..." He stiffened as Sherlock nipped gently at the sensitive flesh. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock groaned into his neck. "You're such a bore."

He disentangled himself from John's warm limbs and spilt out onto the cold floor.

John scrambled upright, leaning against the bed frame and yanking the blankets up around his stomach. Sherlock straightened up, smoothing down his thoroughly ruffled hair.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed suddenly, his eyes trailing down Sherlock's back to the base of his spine.

Sherlock spun to him, looking startled. "What's the matter?"

John crawled off of the bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist like a loincloth. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips and forcefully turned him around. He gingerly touched the space between Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock jerked like he had given him an electric shock.

"Ah," he said, turning to him with an almost guilty expression.

"You should have told me," John said angrily, putting his hands on Sherlock's waist and forcing him to turn again. "You and your bloody pride..."

"It's nothing," Sherlock said, pulling away and suddenly looking very uncomfortable without any clothes on. "Stop fussing."

"Let me look at it," John said, looking at him appealingly. "Just to make sure I didn't do any lasting damage."

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a moment. "Fine," he said at length. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just lie down on the bed," John said, shuffling over to it in his cacoon of sheets.

Grudgingly, Sherlock rested himself across it, parting his legs for John. John knelt down behind him and carefully, gently touched the tender area. It was bloodied and sore but didn't look like it had sustained any lasting damage.

"You're the most ridiculous, proud idiot," John mused, leaning back on his heels.

"If you weren't so rough," Sherlock said in a muffled voice, his face half buried in the covers.

"You brought it on yourself," John said irritably.

Sherlock raised his head, struggling to look at him. "Well, stop picking at it. Dab it with antiseptic or something. Are you a doctor or aren't you?"

John struggled to his feet. "Let me get dressed and then I'll clean it up."

He dropped the sheets and hurriedly gathered up his trousers from the pile on the floor. He disappeared and a moment later came back with a small bowl of water and a sponge.

"What's that for?" Sherlock asked irritably. "Don't you have anything stronger?"

"Sherlock, if you put antiseptic there it will be both incredibly painful and not particularly effective," John replied patiently.

He returned to his place by the bed and dabbed the sponge in the water. He gently pressed it against the wound. Sherlock jerked in pain.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm trying to be gentle."

Sherlock didn't reply. John washed the blood away and squeezed it out in the bowl.

"For your first time it could have been worse," John said without thinking.

He froze in mid-dab. He slowly leant back on his heels again.

"God," he said, "it was your first time."

"No, still Sherlock. I haven't quite reached that status yet," Sherlock replied off-handedly.

"To be honest, I don't even see how a man can get to your age and not..." John broke off, realising how blundering and insensitive he was being.

"I would have thought you would have the measure of my character by now," Sherlock said coolly, crawling upright. "I trust you've finished manhandling me."

John sighed, staring down at his lap with a tired smile. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Sherlock said, leaning against the bed. "It's really not that painful. I suppose almost everyone goes through it eventually in their life. Unless they happen to be a Benedictine Monk..."

There was silence.

John's eyes trailed down Sherlock's still nude figure. His knee was raised up out of the mess of covers and his lips and neck were flushed from his kiss. His hair was a mess and it looked gorgeously bedraggled.

John smirked to himself and stood. He undid the button of his trousers and felt them slide down to his ankles. He kicked them away and crawled across the bed towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at him in surprise. "What are you-"

"Shut up," John said, pressing his lips against his.

He slid onto Sherlock's lap. He felt his cock press against the inside of his thigh. He slid back until it touched his hardening sex and groaned into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock arched against him with a breathy gasp.

"Don't you have to go somewhere?" John said amusedly, as Sherlock attached his mouth to his neck. He tilted his head with a gasp as Sherlock's teeth pinched his skin in a way that would have been painful if it hadn't been so pleasurable.

"I do," he murmured into John's skin. "I have to go and solve this damned, flea-bitten, mouldering case..."

John tried to reply but Sherlock was suckling on his neck, making it difficult to form words. He was rapidly getting extremely hard, and he could feel Sherlock getting hard against him. It was unbearable.

He pressed his lips to Sherlock's ear, almost crushing Sherlock's mouth in the process. "Are you too sore?" he asked feverishly, his sex beginning to throb.

Sherlock managed to pull back, staring at him with eyes ablaze with lust. "Be gentle," he said huskily, pushing John off of him.

John hurriedly lay on his back, pulling Sherlock on top of him. "How much time do we have?"

"Ten minutes," Sherlock gasped, resting himself on John's thighs and pressing a hand against John's chest.

"Quickly," John said breathlessly, touching Sherlock's hips and arching his back with a moan as Sherlock's cock touched his, "_carefully_."

Slowly, Sherlock slid himself onto John's manhood. The two men moaned in unison. John could only think fleetingly of Sherlock's sore, unprepared entrance before everything was eclipsed by the sensation of Sherlock's tightness around him.

"Careful," John choked, trying to control his hips from bucking on their accord."Don't hurt yourself."

Sherlock arched his back with a guttural groan. "Shut up," he said helplessly, tilting his head.

John pressed his clammy palms to Sherlock's hips, trying fruitlessly to keep him from rocking too hard onto him. Sherlock rested his hands on his chest, his fingers grazing agonizingly against John's throbbing nipples.

Sherlock's hips were moving roughly against him, it was hardly as gentle as John had intended but the sight of Sherlock above him, his stomach muscles tautening and relaxing rapidly with his movements and Sherlock's facial expression as he impelled himself down onto John's length made it difficult to think, or speak, or breathe.

"G-god, Sherlock," he croaked, gripping Sherlock's thighs harder, to support himself or slow Sherlock's heated pace he wasn't entirely certain.

The blankets were piled around them like a fortress and John could feel the bed depressing beneath him every time Sherlock's body slid down against him, onto him. He could hear the springs gently moaning, almost as though they were experiencing the same pleasure that the two men were.

"I'm s-sorry," Sherlock breathed, leaning harder into John's chest and hunching his back.

John had to dig his toes into the bed to keep from crying out. All thoughts of Sherlock's tenderness were being forced from his mind. Everything was being clouded by Sherlock's hips and the way they were moving, rolling, rocking up and against him and the feel of his tight, unprepared entrance as he slid inside of him.

John couldn't think and part of him didn't want to.

Sherlock was emitting the most distracting array of sounds; John didn't think anyone could have ignored those breathy moans, those mews of pleasure or pain or whatever it was.

Sherlock arched his back as John apparently hit his sweet spot head on. He gave a whimper that would have brought John to his knees if he hadn't been lying. His legs felt like all the bones had been liquidized inside of them.

"Sherlock... Sherlock... be gentle... for fuck's sake," he panted, hardly aware that his own hips had began moving in time with Sherlock's.

He pressed his head back into the pillow with a hapless groan. It was useless to argue. He was certainly in no position to.

He moved his hand from Sherlock's thigh and wrapped it gently around his manhood. It was leaking pre-cum. John clumsily moved his hand up and down the straining appendage, creating a sticky mess on his palm.

Sherlock tossed his head with another whimper, this one accompanied with a breathless: "J-John..."

John knew Sherlock was close to climaxing. Somewhere in his sex-drenched mind, he could imagine how glorious it would be to witness Sherlock's orgasm from this position. He wanted to see Sherlock when he was drenched in his afterglow, so to speak.

He jerked his hips upwards and quickened his movement around Sherlock's cock, letting his fingers caress the crown a little more each time. Sherlock blinked at him in confused pleasure, his eyelashes clumped together with sweat.

Their thighs were coated with perspiration as they rubbed against each other and John could see it gathering on Sherlock's brow and body, it almost glistened on his pale skin.

"J -John," Sherlock gasped, throwing his head back and pressing his hand almost painfully hard into John's chest. "John... I'm so c-close..."

John could feel the heat building between his own thighs and he could almost smell the excitement building. The smell of sex was always the same; perspiration, arousal, semen, dirt, cologne, toothpaste, alcohol all mixed together in some sticky, hazy stew and it became more poignant as the whole hot mess reached its peak.

He watched as Sherlock's expression became that of a man who was beyond all reason or sense. He was in that realm where his body was controlling him and where the pleasure and need was so great that he would have promised John anything, _anything _at that moment if he just let him climax.

John desperately needed to come, he could have done so quite happily but he forced himself to control it. He wanted to see Sherlock when he finally lost control of himself. He had to see it.

"_Oh_, John," Sherlock stammered, bucking his hips aimlessly and curling his back upward.

With a needy moan, he spent his seed over his stomach. The sight was too much. John felt his eyes roll back in his head and he was overcome by his own orgasm. His hips jerked on their own accord as he came inside of Sherlock's used entrance. The fluid dripped down onto his sore hips.

He collapsed flat on the bed, his mind branded with the sight of Sherlock's orgasm. His own had been sublime, but the sight of Sherlock's pleasure, the look of desperation on his face had been... divine. That was the only word he could use to describe it. He had never seen the man lose control of himself like that. He had done so the night before and now he had done so again and John had seen it as clear as day. It almost served as proof that last night had not been some ridiculous fluke. He could really do that to Sherlock, he could make him lose control like that. Not to mention, orgasm all over himself.

John felt almost dazed and overwhelmed by the sensations.

Sherlock fell against him, his cheek sticking to John's chest. He was breathing harshly, John could feel him panting.

He gently slid his hands around Sherlock's waist. "Oh, God," he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry. I must have hurt you so badly."

Sherlock sat back up, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "I'm not some virgin bride of seventeen," he snapped, clambering off of John and untangling himself from John's limbs.

His legs were visibly shaking and there was blood around his entrance.

John hurried upright, catching Sherlock around the waist and pulling him back towards him. "I'll have to clean it again," he said sternly. "So lie still or I'll make you."

Sherlock looked at him and smirked. "Oh, how _dominant_ of you, John. Whatever's next? Are you going to tie me down and spank me?"

John blushed. "Don't be such a prat."

He got off the bed and pulled his trousers back on his own slightly sex-shaky legs. He turned back to Sherlock, who was watching him amusedly.

"Now, lie down and spread your legs."

...

"I have put up with some cheek, some presumptions from the police but this really goes too far..."

Sherlock was livid. John had never seen him so angry. His hands were clasped together, papery white and his lips were so thin they had almost disappeared completely. He hadn't moved an inch since they had sat down and he hadn't looked at John.

John was still clutching Sherlock's phone. Sherlock had dropped it like a poisonous spider and wouldn't take it back.

"Once you explain to him-"

Sherlock rounded on him with alarming speed. "Don't you dare defend them. You and your bloody diplomacy," he snapped, narrowing his eyes at John. "There are some things in this world that cannot be handled by being retiring and diplomatic."

"You're making such a mountain out of a molehill," John said crossly, tossing the phone back into Sherlock's lap. "He's only telling you that because they have nothing, otherwise he wouldn't be baiting you."

Sherlock stared at him in silence, his features working visibly against his fury. He turned away with an impatient tut.

They didn't speak for the remainder of the journey.

When the taxi came to a halt, Sherlock tore out of the door before John could move, leaving him as usual to pay the driver and trudge along after him. He pushed the money into the cabbie's hand and hurried after Sherlock, seeing him disappear through the doors before he could even straighten up from the cab.

It was a wonder that after being fucked almost two consecutive times, Sherlock could still move with such agility, though even if he was in pain John doubted he would have slowed his pace. However, John noticed he had acquired a little hobble that morning. John knew it would be suicide to mention it.

The girl at the desk didn't seem to believe that he had business there and looked him up and down with a distinctly suspicious look. "Who are you here to see?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at his faded wool pullover.

"I'm... I'm..." John said, a little out of breath, "Sherlock Holmes," he finished lamely.

"What?" the girl said with a startled look, turning around sharply to the lift. "But he just-"

"No, no," John said impatiently, "I'm_ with_ Sherlock Holmes. I'm his..."

Friend? Accomplice? Associate? Companion? Sodomitical lover?

John winced. The very thought of sharing that piece of information with another person filled him an uncomfortable heat.

"Oh!" the girl said, her eyes widening for a moment and then her mouth curving into a strange smile. "Of course. Go through."

"Thank you," John mumbled, hoping desperately that he wasn't blushing, though he an uncomfortable feeling that he was.

He felt her watching him all the way out of the lobby. He was relieved to put the door of the lift between himself and her.

"Did you see him?" the receptionist said abruptly to her friend as she came through the door, coffees in hand.

"What?" her friend said blankly, sliding the coffee tray onto the desk and glancing to where John had disappeared to.

"Damn" the receptionist said disappointedly, "you missed him!"

"What are you going on about?" her friend said, twisting off the lid of her coffee and staring inside. "God, they are so stingy with the froth at that place."

The receptionist leant forward and, with the air of someone about to reveal the secret to humanity's existence, said in a hushed voice: "John Watson."

Her friend froze in mid-sip and looked at her. "_No_. Here? Oh, _bugger_. I can't believe I missed him! It's just my bloody luck."

"Don't worry he'll come down in a sec," the receptionist smiled, "but he isn't _half _as good-looking as you'd think. I mean he's okay. He's got something for sure, but," she laughed, "he's no Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, you're so bad," her friend exclaimed. "Well, pinch me when he comes out. I want to see this _famous _John Watson."

"Don't worry, you'll know," the receptionist paused, with a knowing smirk. "He'll probably _come out _with Sherlock."

She glanced at her friend and they both burst out laughing.

...

"Lestrade, who the fuck do you think you are?"

John arrived on the scene just in time to see Sherlock bearing down on Lestrade with the look of a jackal about to tear the head off a goat.

John walked awkwardly up the row of desks towards them, uncomfortably aware of the stares around him. Was that tittering or was he imagining things? Surely detectives didn't titter.

Lestrade looked impressively placid for someone who had just been abused in front of his staff by Sherlock Holmes. Or perhaps he was just hiding his irritation well.

He straightened up from Donovan's desk, which he had been leaning against. Donovan's eyes slid past Sherlock to John, she raised her eyebrows in a vaguely derisive manner.

Sherlock slammed his phone down on Donovan's desk, making her jump in fright. People were turning to stare at them, the whole room seemed to be looking from Sherlock to John and back again. John was uncomfortably aware of the knowing, little sneers spreading onto some of the faces.

"I'm not one of your staff," Sherlock said furiously, his eyes flashing as he glared at Lestrade. There was a bare inch between them and it was obvious that most people thought that at any moment a brawl was going to break out. "You can't order me around, and you can't give me deadlines when I'm the only fucking one who knows what's going on half the time!"

John felt increasingly awkward and stupid standing where he was. He felt like people were looking at him, waiting for him to shout something in agreement or throw something across the room. What was he supposed to say? "Damn straight!" or "That's bloody right!" Like it was some sort of pub brawl.

"Do you want to come into my office or stand here shrieking like a hysterical banshee?" Lestrade said serenely, looking at Sherlock like he was an over-excited child in a playground.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and for a moment John was sure he was about to throw a punch at him, but finally he turned and stalked towards the door of Lestrade's office. "Fuck you," John heard him hiss.

"No thank you, I don't swing that way," Lestrade said in a low voice, raising his eyebrows around the office. There were a few shouts of laughter.

John glanced around, feeling twenty sets of eyes on him. People were leering at him, waiting to see how he would react to this jibe. He felt his cheeks flare. He hurried after Sherlock, keeping his eyes forward.

Lestrade followed him inside and shut the door on the sniggering audience.

Sherlock turned as they entered. He saw the gleeful expressions of Lestrade's team before the door shut them out and he felt his stomach knot uncomfortably inside of him.

He glanced at John, John wasn't looking at him. His cheeks were flushed and it was obvious that he had not missed the mocking glances either. Sherlock dreaded what would inevitably come next.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said good-naturedly, sitting down behind his desk. "What seems to be the problem?"

Sherlock pressed a button on his phone and he held it out for Lestrade. Lestrade accepted it. There was silence while he held it to his ear. Sherlock could hear snatches of the phone message; he had listened to it himself at least six times. He had hardly been able to believe that even Lestrade could sink to such a low.

"You don't want me on the case anymore?" Sherlock snapped, snatching his phone back. He couldn't stand the complacent expression on Lestrade's face.

"I never said that," Lestrade replied calmly.

"_You may have to reconsider my involvement_?" Sherlock snapped. "How else am I supposed to construe that?"

John glanced at Sherlock. He was extremely angry. John didn't completely know why; Lestrade and his team were always trying to wind Sherlock up and Sherlock usually ignored it with haughty resolve.

"People like their loved ones' deaths to be resolved within a reasonable length of time," Lestrade said patiently, while Sherlock began to pace up and down. Sherlock sent him a poisonous look over his shoulder. "You've been struggling-"

"_Struggling_," Sherlock burst out furiously. "Not all cases are clear cut. Not all cases can be blundered through in one week with a mixture of witness intimidation and questionable evidence."

"But you have no suspects," Lestrade said through gritted teeth. "No evidence-"

"Thanks to your team," Sherlock snapped.

"Sometimes, you just have to let things go," Lestrade said tiredly, pressing his hands together. "Sometimes people fail, people make mistakes."

"Just because you have no leads," Sherlock replied lividly, his fists balled up so tightly his knuckles had gone white, "doesn't mean we have to just collapse in a heap. I'm close. I know I'm close-"

"That's bull," Lestrade cut in. You're as close as you were a week ago. All you've succeeded in doing is make the police look like a joke, make the case into some sort of circus act for all of London to gawk at and..." he broke off, his cheeks going slightly pink. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You haven't done many favours for yourself either."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What? What are you talking about?" he said impatiently.

Lestrade didn't reply. He glanced at John with an awkward cough.

John stared at him. "What's the problem? Do you want me to leave?"

"No," Lestrade said gruffly, leaning back in his seat, "this is for your ears also."

He leant a hand down to the drawer of his desk. Sherlock and John stared at him, transfixed. They didn't dare look at each other.

A moment later Lestrade plucked something out of the drawer. He frowned down at it and then laid it on the table and smoothed it. John looked at it and felt his heart plummet.

"What's that?" he heard himself ask hollowly.

Lestrade looked at him. Then back at the magazine. It looked very well-kept but the pages were folded back where one article had obviously been read several times by several different people. "You might want to reconsider what you tell people like Georgette Finch in the future."

Sherlock was still staring at it; there was a blank expression on his face. John could have shaken him. How could he look so calm and unmoved when inside those glossy pages they were being defamed and humiliated in front of the eyes of people who didn't even know them?

John felt a sickly pulse of anger run through him. He couldn't stand for it.

John marched towards the desk and snatched the magazine up. "This is bullshit," he snapped at Lestrade. "What? Have you and your police cronies been crowding around like a group of bitchy old women, exchanging dirt? I would have thought it of other people. Maybe Donovan, maybe Anderson but I would have thought that you, of all people, would have some decency."

He rolled it up and stalked out of the office.

The door hit the wall with a deafening bang, several people cried out in surprise. Eyes swivelled in his direction as he stalked towards the lift. He saw their smirks, their sneers. Some of them merely looked taken aback but all of them were staring at him like he was some sort of entertainer.

He jammed the elevator button with his thumb. As he stood there he heard Sherlock come up behind him. He stood silently next to him, watching the numbers above the lift doors light up.

The doors opened and they stepped inside.

"Go fuck yourselves," John breathed as the door closed on the gaping faces.

...

"So who do you think tops?"

Donovan glanced up from her desk. "Hardly my area of expertise," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"But, then again, what is?" Anderson said with a smirk, leaning on the edge of the desk.

"Hilarious," Donovan replied, she glanced around and added in a would-be undertone: "Did you see that set of love bites on John's neck? Looked like he had come off the worst with a vampire."

Anderson sniggered. "Well, it's not like his girlfriend would be in the mood these days."

"_Ex_-girlfriend," Donovan corrected him. "You know, I bet Sherlock is a right sadistic twat in bed..."

"Well, if it wasn't ex before, it certainly is now," said the girl from the next desk who had been eavesdropping. "I can't believe she said all that crap about John. I mean, talk about bitch."

"To be perfectly honest, some people deserve it," Anderson said haughtily, "If I was dating Sherlock, I would have done it _long_ before now."

Donovan and the girl exchanged a look. "Poor Anderson," Donovan said, fighting a grin, "you never did get over that little crush-"

"Shut up," Anderson spluttered, colouring.

"Well," Donovan said, sending him an amused look, "Sherlock is too much of a little bitch to top so I'd bet my life savings that that little limp of his is a recent acquisition."

The girl at the next desk gave a shrill laugh. "_Sally_," she exclaimed, glancing around.

"I mean you can just_ tell _some people like it that way," Donovan went on carelessly. "I'm surprised about John though. He never seemed the type-"

"I can't even understand what he _sees_ in John," Anderson said over his shoulder with an irritated tut. "He's hardly a catch."

"I don't know," the girl said slyly. "I think he's got something. Those big, blue eyes-"

"Nice smile," Donovan interjected absent-mindedly, "always polite, always smells nice-

"And he's got a sort of... little boy lost face," the girl rejoined, with an almost dreamy smile.

Anderson turned to them with a disgusted expression. "Don't make me vomit. Don't even pretend for a minute that you've been drooling over him all this time. You just want him now it's come out that he's a great, big poofter-"

The door of Lestrade's office swung open. Anderson jerked around in fright. Lestrade glanced at him and then around the office, almost everyone was staring at him, obviously wondering whether he would offer any juicy details about his, John's and Sherlock's meeting.

"Stop pretending to work for five minutes and listen to me," he said sharply, casting a tart look over them. "Anderson, sit down."

Anderson hurried to his desk, very pink in the face.

There was a breathless moment of silence. Lestrade glanced at Donovan with raised eyebrows, as though he somehow knew what they had been talking about before he'd come in.

Finally, he spoke. "No one is to bring another copy of that flea-bitten magazine into my building again after today," he said coldly. "Furthermore, no one is to bring anything into this office written in any mode, in any magazine, newspaper, rag, newsletter, blog, novel, pamphlet or whatever else they might have dreamed up by Georgette Finch. That means not so much as a mouldy horoscope in _Who_ magazine, understand?"

There was a general mumble of reluctant agreement.

Lestrade glared around them. "Good. Now get on with whatever the hell you're supposed to be doing."

He strode back into his office, leaving his startled team to stare after him.

TBC


	12. Homicide, Haemoglobin and Heartbreak!

A/N: Hey team. I hope people had a good Australia Day! We don't really have a huge Aus Day celebration in my house because we immigrated here from England about fourteen years ago, and my parents still consider themselves English. I've always thought of myself as an Australian. I mean I've been here so long now and know Brisbane and the people so well that it's natural to I think. I've been back a couple of times, but not in the past nine years. I did go to London, but the only thing I really remember is being mobbed by pigeons in Trafalgar Square lol. But this was before they ex-ter-minated them all.

The good thing about being a dual-citizen is that you can take the piss out of both your countries, the bad thing about being a dual-citizen is that you have to pick a side in The Ashes.

ANYWAY. Bit of an angsty chapter. I consulted Woman's Day for the "article". I really, really hate those sorts of magazines. Just read any of the articles they produce and you will see that creating Finch's character was really not that difficult at all lol. Enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

_Chapter Twelve-_

"John! For God's sake, slow down!"

John didn't turn back. He was too angry. Too insulted. Too mortified. The magazine was twisted up in his fist. He didn't know where he was going but it was easier to walk than to have to stand still and think about the humiliation they had just suffered.

Finally, he felt Sherlock's hand forcefully grasp his arm. "Stop," he hissed, "stop and talk to me."

"I don't want to talk," John said, rounding on him.

Sherlock took a step back, surprise flitting momentarily over his face.

"Sherlock, I just want some time alone," John said in a rush, glancing uncomfortably around. "I need to go and- and... get a coffee and..." he glanced at the magazine in his fist, "I need to think things over."

Sherlock didn't reply. A foolish part of John longed for Sherlock to say something to comfort him. It would have been nice to have some support now and again. He knew it was a vain hope.

"Do you even care about what she's doing?" he said quietly, infuriated by Sherlock's composure. "Do you care that she's making you look like a-"

"I don't care what Georgette Finch thinks about me," Sherlock replied harshly. "I never will."

"It's not her opinion that I'm concerned about!" John burst out. "It's everyone else's!"

"As long as it doesn't affect my credibility, John," Sherlock said sharply, "the opinions of other people, especially people like Donovan and Anderson, do not concern me."

John said nothing. He had hoped that somehow Sherlock would realise how humiliated he felt, how helpless and exposed. He wanted Sherlock to come to his aid, but Sherlock didn't understand other peoples' feelings any more than he understood his own.

"But they clearly concern you," Sherlock said at length, his voice seething with displeasure.

John felt smarted by the comment. Far from comforting him, Sherlock was attacking him.

"I suppose I'm just not ready to be treated like this," he said bluntly. "I wasn't ready for all of this."

There was silence. John's insides writhed. He could have worded it better. He _should_ have worded it better, but there was no use attempting to undo what he had said, he would just make things worse.

"Alright," Sherlock said in a hard voice, his disappointment painfully evident, "if that's how you feel, I suppose that's how you feel. I'll see you at home."

He turned on his heel and began walking back up the street. John watched him until he was out of sight, his heart aching miserably.

...

Sherlock had no right to be angry. He knew he didn't, but he was and he couldn't help it. He had thought that John standing up to Lestrade had been proof of his strength of character and his lack of self-serving pride. He had thought John was better than the rest of them, but he wasn't. He was just another self-interested, self-satisfied sycophant.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his unintentional alliteration. If he hadn't been so choked with anger he may have even laughed.

But he couldn't forget John's reaction to Finch's gossip. Somehow it angered Sherlock more than anything they had experienced at the hands of Lestrade's jealous cronies. It angered him that John was capable of embarrassment, that most inane of sentiments. What was more, it was the worst sort of embarrassment: embarrassment of himself.

Sherlock slammed the door of Baker Street shut and sent his foot sharply into it in a burst of infuriation.

It hurt a lot, but it also succeeded in marginally lessening the frustration that had been building up within him since he had left John. If John had been present he probably would have punched him in the face. It was probably a good thing he hadn't had the chance to, as John was bigger than him, stronger than him and an ex-soldier.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson came hurrying down the hallway, looking alarmed. "What was that noise? What on earth is the matter?"

"Mrs Hudson, I am not in the mood," Sherlock said hotly, stalking up to his room.

He slumped down onto the sofa and glared at John's empty chair. How stupid he had been to think that he had finally been given a chance at happiness. He hadn't even been aware that he could experience that elation, that sense that he was utterly content and needed. John did need him. But not as much as Sherlock needed John it seemed.

His phone went off in his pocket and his first thought was that it was John. He hoped fiercely that it was John, but when he saw the number, he knew immediately that it was not.

"Hello?" he said dully, overwhelmed with disappointment.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

He jolted upright, staring ahead in a mixture of anger and alarm. "What the hell do you want?" he spat.

"Just checking up on my favourite consulting detective!" she sang into his ear. "Didn't happen to see my latest, little article did you?"

Finch's voice ran through Sherlock like poison. He was gripped by a suffocating hatred that there was no antidote to.

"Why did you do it?" he said, hardly able to speak when every muscle in his body felt like it had contracted with the weight of his loathing towards her. "Do you get off on victimizing people?"

"I did give you a change, Holmes," Finch said calmly. "All you had to do was answer a few questions, but of course you had to go about it the hard way."

"I've met some sick, selfish, cruel people..." Sherlock broke off helplessly, his throat suddenly feeling extremely sore and his nose stinging dully from something he couldn't quite identify.

"Oh, darling," Finch said, in a sweet, soft tone, almost as though she was comforting a child, "you know that I would never write those things with the intention to truly hurt you-"

"Don't lie to me," Sherlock barked. "You've hated me from the first moment you heard my voice or saw my picture in the paper. I think you've made it your personal goal to destroy me and any chance I may have of ha-"

He caught himself just in time, though it wasn't quite quickly enough.

"He's let you down badly," Finch said softly. "Hasn't he?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He couldn't reply. His throat felt like it had tightened to half its size.

"I know you're angry. I know you're hurt, but it isn't my doing."

Sherlock gave a humourless bark of laughter.

"No, darling," Finch said firmly, "it isn't. You're too intelligent for that."

There was a pause, while she waited for him to speak. Sherlock kept his mouth shut; he had nothing to say to her.

"Perhaps you thought his regard would be strong enough to withstand a few snide comments, a few silly articles." Every word she spoke dripped with satisfaction; she must have been relishing the thought that she was single-handedly destroying John and Sherlock's relationship. "He's failed you. He's shown his weakness, his fallibility. I know, darling. I know it hurts."

Sherlock knew what she was doing, but a part of him had dwelt on this terrible possibility long enough for it to worm its way into his consciousness.

"He loves you, Sherlock," she said earnestly. "I know he does. He just isn't as strong as you are, he doesn't have your mental resilience. But you can protect him."

"He doesn't need my protection," Sherlock said hollowly.

"You know you can stop this whenever you wish," she said gently. "You don't have to let John suffer this humiliation any longer; I can make him yours again. I can make it all go away."

The strange lulling sensation that had come across Sherlock abruptly drained away, to be replaced by cold anger. He realised with a sickening jolt what he had almost allowed her to do. "John will always be mine," he snarled down the phone. "No one, not even you, can take him from me."

He slammed it down onto the sofa, breathing furiously.

"Oh God, she thinks she's got me right where she wants me," Sherlock said, his voice shaking. "She thinks I'm going to give into her little mind games."

He rested his head in his hands, staring blankly at the floorboards. His heart was pounding out of his chest. He sat there in silence for some minutes, not moving and not speaking and not thinking. Soon the intensity of his fury subsided until it was a dull ember in the pit of his stomach.

He stood and went for the door.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted from the landing. "Mrs Hudson!"

Her tottering figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "Are you alright, dear?" she said, wiping her reading glasses on her skirt and blinking owlishly up at him. "Where's John?"

Sherlock ignored her. "Do you by any chance have a copy of _What Weekly_?" he asked her calmly. "This week's issue of _What Weekly_."

"Oh-I-um..." She pressed her glasses onto her nose, biting her lip sheepishly.

"I really could not care less whether you read it once a week or once a year or this is the first time you've ever bought a copy in your life," Sherlock said sharply, going down to her. "I just need a copy. I'll return it."

She looked taken aback. "Oh... Well, yes, dear. I... I may have..." she said, turning and scuttling down the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes after her.

"Just one moment, dear!" she sung over her shoulder.

Three minutes later she returned, the crisp and well-kept periodical clutched in her hands.

She glanced at it uncertainly and then handed it over to Sherlock. Sherlock took it from her with a nod and went back upstairs.

He locked himself in his room and glanced at the cover. The usual rubbish filled every inch of it. In one corner was: _Lose Ten Kilos in Ten Weeks!_, near the cover girl's head was: _Plastic Surgery: How Much Would You Pay For The Perfect Body? _and written on the graphic of a cooking pot was: _How to Cook Perfect Lasagne in Minutes!_ along with all of the other sap.

Then in the middle of page, just to the right of the cover girl and written in long silver letters was: _Sherlock Holmes: Homicide, Haemoglobin and Heartbreak!_

Sherlock's lips thinned. He folded it back to the right page and was immediately confronted by a strange, hodgepodge collage of photos. There was the usual photo of Baker Street, then one of him taken some years ago when he had first started working with the police, one of Lestrade clipped from a newspaper article, one of John in his army uniform which Sherlock couldn't even imagine how she had got her hands on and lastly a strange, slightly distorted photo of Sherlock and John leaving Baker Street. It had obviously been taken at a distance and was heavily pixelated.

Sherlock squinted at it. His own tall, pale figure was obvious and so was John's shorter, blonder form to a lesser extent. They were side by side but their expressions were obscured by the terrible quality of the photograph. He thought he could just make out the slight incline of his head towards John.

Sherlock turned his attention to the article.

_Digging The Dirt On The Detective!_

_Sherlock Holmes, long time associate of the London Police and well-known for his successful resolution of several high profile cases, is used to be placed firmly in the spotlight of London's fierce celebrity eye._

_This ongoing curiosity is almost inevitable, given his almost unearthly talent for resolving even the most convoluted of murder enquiries, his often turbulent relationship with the police and, what can only be politely labelled, his 'eccentricities'._

_The London public have long been intrigued by the detective's unrivalled talent for solving the impossible and his jealously guarded private life. But what secrets lay hidden behind the glossy facade? What hardships has this brilliant and deeply private man faced?_

_Now, for the first time, we receive deep insight into Holmes's private struggles, from those who know him best. Those who know him as a genius who, below his cold and sterile exterior, proves to be as fallible, insecure and at the mercy of his emotions as any other man._

_Sarah Walsh might be what some call the 'woman scorned'. Her happy, five month relationship with the intelligent, good-looking Doctor John Watson was recently brought to a grinding halt when it came to light that her oh-so-perfect man was not everything he appeared to be._

_"It always seemed a little strange," says the now unattached Walsh, from her office in Lambeth Medical Centre. "He (John) and Holmes lived together; they worked on Sherlock's cases together. There was an intimacy between them that is incredibly rare between friends, especially male friends."_

_As these and countless other photos show, the two had become accustomed to never being out of each others' company, but this came at a price. Rumours unsurprisingly flew, and close insiders to the pair have claimed that the two's relationship was "tinted by lust", put on display before the entire police force and the entire London metropolis._

_The scenes were watched in fascination, by both those inside the police and the public, as the two become ever closer. Walsh was aware of the implications, telling _What Weekly: _"It was like watching a train wreck in slow-motion. I had always suspected that there might be something between them, but I just never knew that it had gone that far."_

_She tells of how co-workers hid newspapers and magazines from her, in the vain hope they would protect her from the oncoming heartbreak. She agrees that retrospect is always 20/20, telling _What Weekly_:__ "I just couldn't believe that everyone knew about their affair except me. When I found out, I was just shocked. Not even upset, just completely gobsmacked."_

_This whirlwind affair became public knowledge in the days leading up to Walsh's and Watson's break up, yet Walsh feels she was left completely in the dark by her smitten boyfriend, who's affections had long strayed to another._

_When asked who she believed had initiated the affair, Walsh replies without hesitation: "Sherlock. Almost certainly. John's sweet, he's almost childlike. He wouldn't ever think to cheat on me by himself. I think Sherlock took advantage of a very confused and vulnerable man when he was just coming to terms with his own sexuality."_

_How this no-nonsense, often brusquely mannered detective managed to seduce such a "sweet" man as John Watson is anybody's guess but insiders within the police itself say that Sherlock's "social ineptitude", as they choose to word it, is matched with "a lack of scruples and a relish in taking advantage of people". They go further, claiming: "Watson is Sherlock's little toy. At the moment he can't get enough of him, but you wait another month or so. He'll be completely bored and looking around for something else to fill his time with."_

_This blunt appraisal uncomfortably corroborates Walsh's claims, but no matter what one chooses to believe, it is clear that Watson and Holmes's turbulent relationship has been dogged by hardships, which may be threatening to come to a head. Among the hardships is the prevalent rumour that the detective has fallen from grace within the homicide unit, headed by Detective Inspector G. Lestrade _

_A source claims that Sherlock "is becoming less tolerated" within the ranks of the police elite and this could be due in no small part to the damage done to his public image, following the unceremonious cuckolding of Sarah Walsh. There have been subsequent claims that a blind eye would have been turned, had Holmes's sexuality not played such a prevalent role in the rumours and publicity. A police insider ventures to comment: "if Sherlock hadn't been gay, it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but the way he romps about and uses John like his personal rent-boy just upsets the whole image of the police."_

_DI Lestrade has denied on many different occasions that a culture of intolerance has bred within his ranks, losing his patience on the last occasion and claiming: "I don't give damn who or what the men and women under my command like to screw in their spare time, as long as they do their jobs I'm happy." However, whether this is spoken in truth or to avoid closer scruntiny is debateable.  
_

_But despite the controversy, despite his tarnished image this imperfect and highly intelligent man has had so few chances at happiness. John Watson, in all his apparent naivety and sexual confusion, may bring heartbreak with him when he almost inevitably shrinks from the limelight which perpetually surrounds Sherlock Holmes but for now their happiness together is apparent, though it is clear that there are difficult times ahead for both of them._

_Georgette Finch_

...

John arrived at Baker Street an hour after he had left Sherlock. An hour had been long enough for the edge of his anger to be whittled down and three cups of coffee had been enough for his nerves to be put at rest, at least a little.

He dropped the magazine into a bin as he walked up Baker Street, keeping his eyes forward and ignoring the imagined glances of passersby. They couldn't _all_ have read the article, and even fewer probably cared.

With this comforting thought firmly in his mind, he arrived at the door of 221b. He let himself in and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, staring up to where he knew Sherlock was waiting for him.

He took off his coat and dabbed at the sweat which had gathered along the line of his scalp. His heart was pumping in his chest; he pressed a hand over it as he went upstairs. He could feel it pulsing vigorously, every beat filling him with anxious dread.

"You're back," Sherlock said without looking up, as John stood in the doorway, still considering whether he had the courage to walk in. "How was coffee?"

"Coffee was... ah, good," John said, edging inside and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was seated on the sofa, rigidly balancing on the edge of his seat with his phone clasped between his pale, interlocked fingers. His lips were very thin and very pale. John hadn't seen him like this for a while.

He stood uncomfortably by the door, knowing what he wanted to say but having no idea of how to word it. He glanced around the flat, wanting to look at anything but Sherlock's grim figure.

"I just wasn't prepared for this," he said at length, mustering up all of his willpower just to speak those inconsequential words.

"I didn't design for this to happen," Sherlock replied, his voice strangely flat. "You should have realised that living with me... being with me wouldn't be like being with a normal man with a nine to five job and-"

"Wait," John said, jerking his head towards him, "if it wasn't you, it wouldn't be any man. I'm not-"

He broke off, realising he sounded like a child, reiterating the same unbelievable and inane point.

"You're not what?" Sherlock demanded.

John swallowed thickly. "I'm not gay," he realised how his voice trembled on the last word. "I just have these... these moments where I-"

Sherlock was watching him with his eyebrows knitted. His eyes were disconcertingly cold.

"I know you don't believe me," John said quietly, feeling defeated.

"No, it's perfectly understandable," Sherlock said, his expression blank. "You enjoy making love to another man, you are clearly aroused by another man, you _live_ with another man and yet-"

"Fuck off," John spat, anger taking him by surprise. "You don't understand."

Sherlock didn't look taken aback or offended. He was watching him with infuriating neutrality. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to take you in my arms and comfort you? Put your mind at rest?"

"You could at least try and understand," John said roughly. "You're so good at working out everyone else's problems-"

"You don't have a problem, John," Sherlock said coolly. "You're in denial and you're sexually confused. That is hardly the stuff of psychological break-downs."

"How can you be so insensitive?" John snapped. "Why is it that my concerns are all just a result of me being stupid and paranoid?"

"Because most of the time, they are!" Sherlock said crossly, irritation springing into his voice for the first time.

"I am not being paranoid," John said furiously. "That woman is out of control! How can you just sit there and be so bloody indifferent?"

"I'm doing it to protect you!" Sherlock shouted. "You think if I go and abuse her it'll stop her doing what she's doing? You think if I make it clear just how much this is affecting you she'll be encouraged to stop? It isn't you she wants. You're a means to an end. I can't do anything to help you."

He lapsed into silence, panting.

John stared at him in cold fury, never feeling so close to wanting to hurt Sherlock in his entire life. "Maybe she's right about you," he said softly, knowing he was aiming far below the belt but too angry to care.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said quietly, his cheeks very flushed.

"Maybe you're just never going to change," John said.

Amongst the anger and the humiliation, there was a treacherous edge of pain. John would have given anything to feel numb at that moment.

There was a torturous moment of silence. John knew what he had said had hurt Sherlock before the words were even out of his mouth. Sherlock's countenance did not alter, his eyes remained blank, his mouth didn't quiver but John knew he was hurt. But it was too late to take back what he had said now.

"I never intended to." Sherlock finally replied in an icy tone.

He stood. Without a glance at John, he passed him and John heard the door close behind him.

TBC


	13. Sugar

A/N: Hello! Bit of a quick chapter but another one will be coming soon. You may have noticed that I've changed the story blurb. Never really liked the original one so I decided to change it. Lol. Isn't that fascinating xD I just wanted to acknowledge it so everyone didn't think I was being vain or something. I suppose it is a bit vain xD But it isn't supposed to be.

Also, I've begun another Sherlock story. I know, I know. What _another_ one, you exclaim in disgust. An inspiration-worm buried its way into my brain so I had to give into the temptation and write a couple of pages. I'm sure I'll post it but I don't want to do it until I'm certain that I will finish it. WHAT'S IT ABOUT, I hear you eagerly demand. Well, I'm glad you asked. It's about a little, old-fashioned thing I like to call... Sherlock and John get it on. D'awww! If Sherlock was a chick (ok, try not to vomit, I have a point here), he would have SO MANY BABIES. Because THEY NEVER USE A CONDOM. Think about it people. Ok fine don't.

Anyway, enjoy and there will be a helping of smut in the next chapter.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Thirteen-_

Well, she had certainly achieved what she had set out to do. She had destroyed Sherlock's relationship with John. If that word could be applied to the frenetic, unpredictable bond that seemed to exist between them.

She thought she had beaten him; she thought she had broken him. She had reached the widest audience she was ever going to reach, admittedly it was just a handful of bored housewives and an unscrupulous few at Scotland Yard but she was counting on John's hurt pride to win the day.

Sherlock had never felt so disappointed in another human being. He had come to expect that people, in their infinite ability to be selfish, greedy slobs, would always fail. There were a precious few that surpassed those meagre expectations. None had ever come as close to securing his respect and admiration as John Watson. There were aspects about him that he was certain no other man possessed.

He sighed, leaning against the hallway wall and staring dully at the ceiling. He had allowed his hopes to rise impossibly high. He had slept with John twice. Did that make them lovers? They had lived together a few months. Did that make them partners? They had grown used to each others' whims and manners. Did that make them friends?

No. Sherlock had foolishly allowed his emotions to hijack his body and everything he had known would happen, had happened.

He glanced up the stairs to where the door remained closed. Then he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, going into 'Calls Received'. At the top of the very short list was the nameless number that he now knew belonged to Georgette Finch.

...

John stared at the door in numb disbelief. Sherlock must have been extremely angry to walk out like that. He usually preferred to drive John out than make the effort to go himself.

It seemed the more John tried to wheedle the emotions out of Sherlock, even a shred of sympathy or understanding, the more violently Sherlock rebuffed him.

John felt bruised. He felt humbled and hurt and bruised. A foolish part of him had hoped that Sherlock would have just known that. He seemed to recognise everything else.

He sighed and went to the sofa.

"Inconsiderate tosspot," he mumbled, sinking down onto the sofa and resting his head in his hands.

In the back of his mind, John felt he knew what had most irritated Sherlock. It was John's assertions that he wasn't gay. John couldn't help the way he felt. He just didn't see how he could be labelled by someone who, until recently, had been a virgin. John hadn't ever felt about another man how he felt for Sherlock.

So he enjoyed having sex with_ one_ other man. Did that make him gay? Why should it? When he'd been in university boys kissed boys, girls kissed girls and it was _no big deal_. It didn't mean you were... that way, it meant you were having a good time, you were probably a bit drunk and confused.

John was certainly confused.

But if Sherlock hadn't walked into his life, then perhaps these strange sensations wouldn't have been woken inside of him. At least it had been quiet. At least he hadn't been putting his life at stake. And his sanity.

But safety had never felt as good as bedding Sherlock had.

Before he could turn his thoughts to safer ground, goosebumps erupted across his skin. The memories were enough to make cold sweat break out over his body, and his imagination did the rest. Moving inside of Sherlock had been different to anything he had experienced before. It had been intensely intimate, intensely pleasurable and charged by some strange, heated energy that sex had never entailed before for him.

He leant back against the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling. He could feel his nipples beginning to sting slightly and his sex beginning to gently throb.

John should have seen the day he first met him that Sherlock would be the one who uncovered all of the emotions he had spent twenty years industriously burying.

Perhaps he had seen.

Downstairs he heard the front door slam.

...

Sherlock stared into the dregs of his tea cup. Lumps of sugar were clinging to the side, half-dissolved in the discoloured milk. She used far too much sugar. It was almost ironic for someone so unsweet themself.

"Ready?"

Sherlock looked up and just nodded. His tongue felt like it had cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

"I'll record you on this," Finch said, showing him a small, silver tape recorder. "I like to be able to go over things, so speak clearly and make sure you say exactly what you mean to say because facial expressions and body gestures are useless on print."

Sherlock made a dubious sound between his teeth.

She placed the recording device on the coffee table between them and shifted the notepad on her lap.

"Before we begin," Sherlock said thickly, the saliva dry in his mouth, "I have a few conditions."

"Naturally," Finch said, smiling wryly and pushing a thick, pink pair of spectacles up her nose.

"Firstly, don't twist any of my words," Sherlock said sharply, "say everything as I say it."

"Of course," Finch said, with the sincerity of a spoilt child.

Sherlock wasn't concerned. He held the Ace card at the moment. "Secondly, my relationship with John is not to be spoken of except in the most general of terms." He eyed her distrustfully. "His personal life is not to be spoken of at all."

He paused, but this time she did not speak. He could almost sense her mind digesting this, already wondering how she could loophole it.

"Lastly, you send me a copy _before_ you go to print," Sherlock replied. "I want to make sure you haven't twisted it beyond recognition. If any of these conditions are broken-"

"Yes," Finch said coolly, "what then?"

Sherlock leant a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to her. "You'll sign this. It has all three conditions in writing and there's a space for your signature. Break any of these provisos and I will sue you."

"I like your confidence, Mr. Holmes," Finch said amusedly.

"And I will win," Sherlock said stonily. "Because, unlike the other fools you scapegoat, I have connections within Scotland Yard who hate you even more than they hate me."

"Interesting," Finch said, leaning back in her seat and giving her foot a considering jiggle. "Alright, Mr. Holmes. I'll sign your little form, but-"

"No," Sherlock said sharply, "those are my three conditions. Take them or leave them."

She rolled her eyes and held out a taloned hand. "Very well."

Sherlock watched as she gave a graceful sweep of her powder blue pen over the paper and a moment later she handed it back. Sherlock looked at it, to ensure that it was identical to the one he had seen on her many book jackets.

"Alright," she said, suddenly businesslike. He heard a click as she turned on the tape recorder. "I'll ask you twenty or so questions. Just answer to the best of your ability, dear."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. She must have been relishing this moment. For all her outward displays of indifference, she knew that he must have been desperate to come to her. Desperate for her to ravage him and not John.

She looked at him over the top of her glasses, not able to keep the tiniest smirk passing across her heavily painted mouth. "Why do you think the police come to you, when they have their own dedicated team of specialists?"

Sherlock tutted impatiently, and then quickly checked himself. He couldn't turn this into a police bashing stunt. As much as he would have liked to humiliate a certain few at Scotland Yard, not all of them deserved it. And it wouldn't help John. "They come to me because, for all of their brilliance and experience," he said tonelessly, "mine is better."

Finch gave a humourless laugh. "Is that so? Do they ask you to help them on every case?"

"No, just the ones that are particularly difficult," Sherlock replied impatiently, bored of this farce before it had even begun.

"But why would they ask you, of all people?" Finch asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

"You mean a reclusive freak?" Sherlock snapped.

"I mean a man with no training or expertise," Finch replied calmly. "Doesn't it surprise you that the police so readily place their trust in you?"

"Sometimes we have no choice but to trust people," Sherlock replied in a hard voice.

Finch smiled wanly. "Interesting," she scribbled something on her notepad. "And Doctor Watson? Where does he factor into all of this?"

Sherlock felt himself stiffen where he was. "His medical expertise is invaluable," he replied shortly.

"But where did your friendship begin?" Finch pressed, her eyes shrewd.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock snapped, his temper flaring.

"I'm just fulfilling the demand for information," Finch said, affecting to be taken aback.

"We met by chance," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to be calm. "Just chance."

He closed his mouth tightly, as though frightened that something more might force itself from his lips.

"Will you explain to my readers precisely what it is that exists between you two?" Finch asked quietly, her eyes glinting.

Sherlock didn't reply immediately. He thought about John and how humiliated he had been to discover that they were the centre of petty intrigue. He thought about how he felt when John was close to him, the sensation of having him against him, inside of him. He felt the blush rise in his cheeks.

"Something that you and your readers could never understand," he replied finally, gripped by something deep in his gut which ached like a wound.

He stared at his lap, feeling it rise up through him, paralysing every organ and limb.

He heard the scratch of Finch's pen. "Excuse me," she said placidly. "Shall we continue? Now, I've heard rumours that you and Inspector Lestrade haven't always seen eye to eye, any comments on this speculation?"

Sherlock tried to reply but his throat ached. He couldn't get the words out.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at her, stricken by how much he would have liked to hurt her for everything she had done and all of the pain she had caused. Instead, he stood, knowing that he couldn't stay with her a moment longer without suffocating under the weight of the terrible confusion of sensations inside of him.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaning across and taking the slip of paper from the coffee table, on which his 'contract' was scrawled, "I thought I could do this, but I can't. You can write what you want about me, you can write what you want about John. It makes little difference now. I've already lost him."

He walked towards the door, tearing the 'contract' in two as he did.

"Hurts to lose someone you love," she said quietly, as he was at the door, "doesn't it?"

He turned. She was still sitting motionlessly in her chair. He stared at her for a moment and then left.

He closed the door and walked down the stairs, numbly treading the familiar path to the gate.

With his hand on the latch, his body was suddenly wracked by pain. He hunched over, clutching his stomach and feeling for a moment that he was going to be sick. He tried to breathe but the only sound which escaped was a strangled sob.

Crouching down by the wall, he pressed his face against the stones and felt his body shudder uncontrollably with a misery that he couldn't contain and that he didn't understand. It was like being gripped by a violent illness, the workings of which were foreign to him. He had never felt the sensation before, of such agony without a wound. The wound was far deeper than he could have imagined.

...

John's depressed stupor was interrupted by footsteps ascending the stairs. He could hear Mrs Hudson's cheerful chatter so he immediately discounted it being Sherlock.

A moment later there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he said, forcing himself to sit up.

His head gave a protesting throb.

"Sorry to deserve you, dears," Mrs Hudson bustled inside, glancing around. "Oh! Sherlock not in?"

John looked past her to the door where a well-dressed blonde woman was lurking, looking vaguely fraught. "No, he's just popped out," he replied. "Hello," he added awkwardly to her.

She nodded in reply.

"What a shame," Mrs Hudson said, casting a vaguely disapproving eye over the cluttered kitchen sink. "This young lady wants to speak to him."

John sat up a little straighter. "What about?" he asked her.

The woman glanced uncertainly at Mrs Hudson. "It's about Joana Shaw," she replied quietly.

"Well," John hesitated, knowing that it would be a lie to suggest that he knew when Sherlock would return, "if you wait a moment, he might be back soon."

She nodded, stepping tentatively inside. "Thank you."

Mrs Hudson peered between them, clearly believing that something not altogether kosher was about to occur. "Well, I'll leave you be then." She cast a last, questioning glance at John and left.

The door closed behind her and there was an awkward silence as the woman peered around the dishevelled flat, staying very close to the door.

"Did you want to..." John gestured to the sofa.

"You're his boyfriend, aren't you?" she said abruptly, almost at the same moment. "Sherlock Holmes's? I've read about you."

"You don't say," John said flatly. "No, I'm not. The gossip columns have taken a bit of artistic license."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, abashed. "I assumed that... Sorry," she finished lamely.

"No, it's fine," John said, shaking his head. "I suppose I'll have to get used to it."

There was another silence. John wondered whether to ask her if she wanted something to drink. She seemed vaguely agitated, she kept shifting from foot to foot where she stood and staring around the flat without ever settling her eyes on any one thing.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" John offered finally. "Until Sherlock gets here?"

"No," she said, in an almost strangled tone, "I don't even know why I..." She put a hand to her head, a pained expression coming across her face. She looked up at him sharply. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I should have called ahead or something. Maybe I'll come back another day-"

"Wait!" John called after her as she went hastily for the door. "Why don't you leave your name? I can tell Sherlock you were here when he gets back."

She hesitated, looking as though she was torn between giving it and not giving it. "Ah... it's Yvonne," she said at length. "Don't worry about the surname; he'll know who I am."

Then she was gone and John heard her hurry down the stairs and out of the front door. He frowned after her in bemusement.

...

When Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street he had already scrubbed his face almost raw in a nearby public toilet, to hide his little episode in Finch's garden. For him, such explosions of emotion was equivalent to wanking off in public and he had no intention of John becoming aware of it.

He paused at the door, one hand on the knob. His heart gave a nervous throb.

He turned it and went inside, his eyes immediately falling on where John was slumped on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He jolted upright as soon as he saw Sherlock. "Sherlock," he said thickly.

Sherlock was certain that the mess of his face would be obvious, but John didn't make any sign that he could see it. "I think you should move out," he said evenly, "as soon as you find alternative lodgings."

"What?" John said, the disbelief evident on his face.

"We've clearly misunderstood each other," Sherlock went on quietly, relieved to find that controlling his voice was easier than he had imagined. "What we want from each other, what we think of each other-"

"No," John said hollowly, "no, please don't do this-"

"I'm doing what's best for both of us," Sherlock said shortly. "I've disturbed your life too much already."

John stood up, his hands were trembling slightly. "Is this your way of making me apologise?" he said, in a voice seething with anger.

"If you stay here, the articles may continue," Sherlock said coldly, "and I know how much they affect you-"

"Why is it so difficult to understand that I find my sexuality being put up on a pedestal for the whole of London to examine embarrassing?" John burst out furiously.

"According to you, you have no sexuality," Sherlock replied nastily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" John said softly. "You think I'm in denial?"

"You are in denial!" Sherlock snapped, finally giving into the anger that was welling up hotly inside of him. "Why don't you see it? Things are what they are, John. There is no grey area."

John shook his head. "No... No... You're wrong. Things are never that simple."

"I wonder who made you this way," Sherlock said bitterly, despising how every bone and joint in his body was urging him to take John into his arms, when his mind knew so much better. "I wonder who has made you feel you have to act like this. Is this the only way you can sleep at night? By pretending that this is all just a phase that will pass?"

John's face flushed angrily. "You have no right to... What are you doing?"

Sherlock ignored him. He stood close enough that he could feel the heat of John's skin. He took his chin in his hand and forced him to meet his eye. John must have known what was coming but he made no effort to prevent it. Sherlock kissed him roughly, forcing his tongue between John's lips and pressing a hand to the back of John's neck to keep him from pulling away. He lowered his other hand to the space between John's legs and gripped the slight bulge of John's sex.

John made a muffled sound against his mouth, something between a whimper and a protest and pushed weakly at his shoulders.

Sherlock released him, his breathing unsteady and his body simmering with faint lust. John stared woozily up at him, his hands still rested against his shoulders.

"What is that supposed to prove?" he said quietly.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, conscious of how the hollow sensation that had persisted inside of him all the way home from Finch's had subsided, as though John's body was the remedy, "I just wanted to say goodbye."

He stepped back, his body immediately protesting the loss of John's warmth.

John bit his lip, watching him as he went across to the kitchen. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

TBC


	14. It'll Be Alright

A/N: Hello dears. After all that angst, a bit of relief was needed. Especially for my poor reviewers D:

Decided to delete my rant, as I still don'tttt really know whether I had warrant to be pissed off. OH WELL. Don't really care. From now on, if you don't like my writing just get the hell off my property.

But for every horrible person, there are ten lovely ones. Thank you very much for your reviews. Don't be too sad! There is happiness coming :)

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter Fourteen_

With all hopes of spending the night with John dashed, Sherlock decided to turn his attention squarely to the case which had been dominating the last month of his life. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he had failed.

The first time he had ever failed to solve a case. And this one had seemed so _easy_. It had obviously been either the husband or one of Finch's disgruntled victims. But it seemed so unlikely that months after kicking the habit, Joana would be hunted down by a scorned lover. Especially when they were so rich and powerful and most likely wouldn't have made such a meal of the entire process.

The previous night John had walked out, muttering something about the pub. Five hours later Sherlock had heard him stumble drunkenly up the stairs to his own room.

Sherlock didn't have time to dwell on whether John would call his bluff and really leave. He didn't have time for the terrified churning sensation in his stomach that erupted at the mere thought of John. Or of considering what caused it.

No. He had to turn his thoughts to solving Joana's murder. John had ceased being an asset and had become a distraction. A terrible distraction.

Sherlock spent the night concentrating on numbing every part of himself. It was easier than he had thought. By morning he could open his eyes and go into the kitchen without any fear of what his and John's first meeting since their second explosive argument would entail.

It turned out that his confidence and indifference were unneeded. John was already gone. Where, Sherlock had no idea but he had taken almost everything he owned, which usually laid scattered about the place. Except his phone of course, which was still missing in action.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and took out his own phone, determinedly shoving every shred of curiosity about where John had gone from his mind. He intended to do this without any further interruptions from the police.

He had thought that Joana's death had been all about her mother. That someone had targeted her because of her mother's malevolence, but perhaps he had been focusing on the wrong person. Perhaps he was missing something.

Finch had been her usual, destructive self. She had seen her chance to snag a story. That was all she cared about and Sherlock had fallen so easily into her lap.

He closed his eyes with a pang of shame as he thought of how he had come so close to giving her what she wanted. She would never have left John alone, not even if he had given her the interview. There was only one method of resisting her; he would have to ignore her. It sounded petty and childish but there was nothing else to be done.

"But it just doesn't make sense," he exhaled in frustration, leaning back in his seat and staring at the screen of John's laptop, on the cushion beside him, "if it wasn't her then why."

_Why._

There seemed to be a mess of useless evidence. The fake suicide, the glasses, the phone call they had overheard from Thomas's wardrobe. Finch's assertions about her son-in-law, Finch's assertions about Terry Kirk, when it couldn't have possibly been him.

It just didn't make sense.

And Thomas Shaw's endless reminders that he had an alibi. That he had been seen by a roomful of men. Well, it only took one loyal friend to insist they had seen him and the rest would convince themselves that they had too.

Well, he had certainly moved on very quickly from his wife. If Sherlock had nothing better to go on, he at least had that.

He felt for his phone and hastily texted Lestrade.

_I want all the information the police have on Thomas Shaw. I'm coming in to get it. Now._

...

John had gone out with the intention of fetching the remainder of his belongings from his office in Lambeth Medical Centre. He was a bit hung-over from the night before, which was both a charm and a curse. A charm because it blotted the uncomfortable thoughts that had been circulating in his mind since he and Sherlock had argued.

He had met a girl at the pub. Pretty, slim brunette type who wore slightly too much make-up to hide a minor case of adult acne and liked tequila almost as much as she seemed to like cheap perfume. They had chatted and then, drunk as he was and determined to hurt Sherlock as much as possible as he was, had gone home with her at eleven or eleven-thirty. But the night which had started out so rotten, became even worse when it was obvious that his body was going to let him down.

After ten minutes of humiliation, he finally had to concede defeat and abashedly dress, desperate to get as far from her as possible. She was cringingly understanding and sympathetic, clearly thinking that this was a common occurrence for him.

His cold comfort was that it hadn't happened in Baker Street.

He reached the medical centre and found it reasonably quiet. Losing a doctor had probably affected the intake of their patients. The receptionist started when she saw him, but hastily recovered with a wide smile.

"John," she said politely, "how are you?"

"Ah, not bad," John said, deciding to make an effort to appear normal and unruffled by all of the attention that had been on him in the last two weeks. "Yourself?"

"Yes, perfectly well," the receptionist said briskly. "She's in an appointment but she should be out in soon."

John nodded, not surprised that she knew why he was there. "I'm going to clear up the rest of my stuff," he said, "while I'm here."

He let himself into his office and glanced around. It was more or less how he had left it. It didn't have much of a personal touch to it, no photos on the walls or certificates or silly little ornaments, like other doctors seemed to favour.

He took the boxes that were still stacked in the corner from when he had moved everything in, just a few months prior.

"Just when you think you have all the sections of your life sorted out, one of them has to cave in," he muttered, kneeling by his bookcase and beginning to pack the medical journals that crammed most of its shelved. "Or a couple."

Jobless, homeless and loveless. He had lost everything he had built for himself within a few moments. The moment he had kissed Sherlock that day in Shaw's garden. He should have known then that he was doomed. You couldn't just kiss someone and expect that nothing would come of it. No, things didn't happen like that. Sherlock might think that, the whole world might think that but a kiss... A kiss was important.

Ok, he corrected himself, a kiss was important once you turned at least twenty-five. Anything that happened before then was too foggy with alcohol and self-conscious lust to be taken too seriously, but anything past twenty-five meant something.

And sex... Well, what that meant was far too philosophical to be considered while packing books into a box.

He heard the door opened and turned to see Sarah standing in the doorway, a file clutched in her arms. She didn't look surprised to see him.

John stood, forgetting that he was still holding a medical paper on _Sexually Transmitted Diseases_ in his hands. "Sarah," he said, surprised that he sounded so calm.

"Hello," she said, closing the door behind her and betraying for the first time a slight edge of unease as she turned back to him, her eyes darting to the paper in his hands. "Meg told me you were here."

"Yes," John said, hastily stuffing the paper into the box and straightening back up, "I just came to..." he gestured to the box.

He didn't really know how to address the subject he had come to speak to her about. The blind anger he had experienced when first reading the article had leaked away. It had been spent on Sherlock and Finch, very little had been left for Sarah.

"You don't have to leave," Sarah said quickly. "We could really use your help. We're one doctor short and it's been chaos here-"

"I think it's best, under the circumstances," John said coolly, turning to his desk in the act of clearing off his old schedules.

"Look, I'm really sorry about that stupid article," Sarah said emphatically. "I had no idea it was going to be like this."

John looked at her in disbelief. "Why would you speak to her? Did I hurt you that badly?"

"She called me," Sarah said, shaking her head, "asking all sorts of questions. I know it's ridiculous but you have to believe me that I didn't say half that crap she wrote. All that crap about knowing that you and Sherlock were lovers. It's pure fantasy."

If it had been anyone else, John would have told her to fuck off but she spoke so earnestly and this was a woman who had proven to be a sensible and responsible woman in the weeks he had known her. The esteem he had once held for her was gone but he did not believe her capable of this extent of slander.

"You shouldn't have said anything," he said gruffly, sitting down heavily in his old chair. "You should have known she wasn't exactly trustworthy."

"I know," Sarah said, with a sigh, "I know. I was stupid, but I didn't do it on purpose."

John didn't reply. He was still tossing up whether to forgive her or not. As earnest as she sounded, she had been the prime source in the article.

"Who was she anyway?" Sarah said. "One of Sherlock's exes?"

"No, just some writer," John said, leaning on his hand with a tired sigh. "Sherlock's got himself tangled up in some mess, as usual."

Sarah laughed. "I can see that, and he's dragged you in too. As usual."

"Not for very much longer," John said in a low voice. "He's kicked me out."

"Oh?" Sarah said, sounding very surprised. "Trouble in paradise?"

John sent her a dark look.

"Too soon?" she said with a wan smile.

"A little," John replied, turning away to hide his smile.

"Well, look." She paused. "Why don't you come back here to work? We could use you and you'll need some money to find a new place."

"Thanks," John replied, feeling grateful in spite of himself. "That would be very helpful."

He stood, glancing down at the box. "Well, I suppose I should unpack. Or maybe I should go home and start looking at flats for rent on the net."

"That second idea sounds wise," Sarah said wryly. "Start on Monday, nine sharp."

"Thanks," John said, moving to leave.

As he passed her, she stepped closer to him and for a moment John thought she intended to kiss him but he hastily moved backwards.

"Sorry," he said, taking a slight pleasure in rebuffing her. Well, he needed a little payback for what she had done. He wasn't Jesus. "No more office romances."

She didn't look stung, in fact she smiled slightly. "You really do have feelings for him, don't you?" she said.

John was taken off guard by the comment and felt himself colour before he could think of an adequate response.

Sarah laughed and held the door open for him. "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret."

...

When it came apparent that Lestrade was not going to reply to Sherlock's text (that is, after ten minutes of impatiently pacing about), Sherlock decided to send a few follow-up texts. Well, twelve.

Finally, thirty minutes later, Sherlock's phone rang. He eagerly snatched it up.

"Lestrade?" he barked.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's me," Lestrade replied tiredly. "Are you busy?"

"No," Sherlock replied impatiently, "I need Shaw's files, I want to bring him in and ask him a few questions about these business associates of his, about Yvonne-"

"That won't be possible," Lestrade interjected flatly.

"What do you mean?" snapped Sherlock. "I need to-"

"He's dead."

Sherlock blinked, staring blankly ahead. "What."

"He was found dead this morning," Lestrade replied. "In the same fashion as Joana, strung up by his neck. Only this time it was in his girlfriend's house. She came home to find him hanging from the gables in the garage. And this time, I don't think it was fake."

"What," Sherlock said vaguely. "But... that can't... it doesn't make any..."

"He committed suicide," Lestrade replied sharply. "What's so unbelievable about that? His wife had just been killed."

Sherlock frowned at the phone. "But he was well-off, he had a new girlfriend, a new house, why..."

"Use your head, Sherlock," Lestrade said irritably, "pretend for once that you posses human feeling and think how you would feel if someone you loved dearly was slaughtered."

Sherlock, before he could stop himself, thought about John. The image of John, white and lifeless, hanging by his neck flashed painfully across his mind.

"We'd like it if you came over and quickly glanced- just _glanced_ mind- at the body," Lestrade said gruffly. "Just to make sure this is what it is."

Sherlock didn't reply. He had just realised that, for the first time in his life, he had put himself into someone else's shoes, had considered their position and shared their pain. He had felt something on a human level, a real, human level. It startled and confused him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said sharply.

"Ah, yes, yes," Sherlock said hurriedly. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up and went for his coat.

Lestrade texted him the address and when he arrived , he found a small collection of police and forensic officers milling about the place, clearly waiting for him to declare it a clear suicide so they could go home.

The garage was open and Lestrade was standing outside it, apparently in conversation with Anderson, his head tilted towards him. Anderson noticed him over Lestrade's shoulder and said something to Lestrade who turned and waved him over.

Sherlock went over to them, not particularly caring what Anderson had to say but nevertheless glad that John would be spared another episode like the one in Scotland Yard.

"Finally," Lestrade said, seeming tense, "hurry up, will you?"

Sherlock ignored him. "What time did the girlfriend find him?"

"Nine o' clock this morning," Lestrade replied, "she says she went to the gym at seven, went to coffee with her mother, got back, couldn't find him, looked all around and then... well, she found him."

He jerked his head inside the garage. Sherlock turned. Shaw's handsome, suited figure was hanging like a ragdoll above the bonnet of his Lexus.

He went inside and walked around the inside of the garage. It was extremely clean. There was barely any clutter at all. No tools, no paint, no old Christmas decorations, no car oil. Just one very clean Lexus and a dead man.

He went to the edge of the bonnet of the car and cast his eye down the glossy paint finish. As he had expected, there was a very slight footprint of dust and dirt from where Shaw had stepped on it. There was no doubt he had stepped on it to reach the rafters.

"I need to talk to her," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "The girl."

"What girl?" Anderson snapped.

Sherlock turned to him, raising his eyebrows. "Yvonne."

Anderson's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do you know her-"

"Shut up," Lestrade snapped. "Why do you?" he said to Sherlock.

"He most certainly took his own life," Sherlock replied. "Any idiot could see that. But I'm not convinced as to why."

"His girlfriend is being treated for shock in the Royal London Hospital," Lestrade replied.

"Alright, I'll wait a few hours until she's sent home," Sherlock replied.

"My, my," Anderson said snidely, turning slightly pink when Sherlock turned his eyes sharply onto him, "turning a bit sentimental in your old age, Sherlock?"

"No," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, "I just don't want to be surrounded by nosy nurses and doctors."

Anderson sniffed disdainfully and turned away.

"Well," Lestrade said reluctantly, "if you must. But I want this wrapped up today, Sherlock. A grief-stricken husband taking his own life is _not_ a crime."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, waving a hand impatiently. "I have to go."

"Back to his lover," Anderson smirked.

"Shut it, Anderson," Lestrade barked. "Go and make yourself useful."

Anderson rolled his eyes and slunk away.

Lestrade waited until he was out of earshot. "You haven't been hanging around that Finch woman again, have you?" he said in a low voice.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "No. Why?"

"She's published another article online," Lestrade said, glancing around. "Shorter one. Not particularly juicy. Just any old rubbish like usual." He hesitated, seeming uncertain. "But there's this video-"

"What?" Sherlock looked up sharply.

"It's obviously not you and John," Lestrade said hurriedly. "But the suggestion is there..."

"Which news site," Sherlock said bluntly, already on Google.

"Well, it's not... exactly one..." Lestrade said uncomfortably. "It's more like... every news site that happened to get wind of it."

Sherlock stared at the screen of his phone. "She's just never going to stop," he said numbly, lowering it down beside him.

"Just stay away from her," Lestrade said aggressively. "I warned you. You knew what she was like. She's tasted blood, she won't stop now. The best thing you can do is not give her any more opportunity to do this."

Sherlock hated to admit it, but Lestrade was right.

"In fact I forbid you from going anywhere near her," Lestrade said firmly. "I forbid you. That's an order."

"I'm not your lackey," Sherlock said disdainfully.

"No, but you work for me all the same and if you don't do what I say, I can easily leave you out of the loop the next time a juicy, little case comes available," Lestrade said calmly.

Sherlock didn't believe him but he chose to pretend that he did. "Ok," he said, as meekly as he was ever going to.

Enjoy this moment of submission, he thought as Lestrade gave a satisfied nod of his head and returned to his lackeys.

"Give our love to John," Donovan sneered as he passed, but Sherlock was too lost in his own thoughts to hear her.

He suddenly felt strangely liberated. He no longer had to speak to Finch. He was certain, in his heart of hearts, that she had no information about her daughter's death, that no angry celebrity had been responsible. He was becoming more certain that Thomas Shaw had been the guilty party and, overcome by guilt, had taken his own life.

This was his new theory anyway. He still needed to speak to Yvonne. But, joy of joys, he would never again have to crawl to Finch, begging for information, selling his soul for her petty information and hurting John so terribly in the process-

He stopped short where he was.

John.

No. All was not yet well. Not even close.

...

John was walking down from Lambeth Medical Centre when something suddenly hit him like a brick. Finch had called Sarah. How the hell could she have Sarah's number? How could she even know who Sarah was?

John had mentioned Sarah's name _once_. So had she hunted through every Sarah in the phonebook until she had found the one who knew John Watson?

John was suddenly gripped by an intense fury that he hadn't felt for a very long time. Or perhaps ever. He had been irritated with Lestrade, he resented Anderson and Donovan and he had been disappointed with Sarah. But this was a different brand of anger; it was in a different realm.

He had stopped where he was on the stairs but hurriedly regained his pace and caught the first cab he saw. He now knew where his phone was.

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at Finch's house and spilt out onto the footpath, without looking at the driver as he stuffed a twenty pound note at him. He knocked, determined to keep his temper but not to leave until he had his phone. He was _not _going to leave without his phone.

A few moments later the door was answered.

"I know you have my-"

John cut off. It wasn't Mrs Finch. It was a short, grey-haired woman in an apron.

"Yes?" she said, eyeing him up and down suspiciously.

"I'm here to see Georgette Finch," John said forcefully. "She has something of mine."

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman said, raising an eyebrow.

"No," John said, "but my name is John Watson. Tell her, she'll know who I am."

The woman stared at him for a moment and then turned and shuffled inside. John waited impatiently on the stairs, jigging from foot to foot and hardly able to resist the overwhelming sense of outrage coming across him. He just couldn't believe that people like her existed.

A moment later the woman reappeared. "You can come in," she said, in a voice that suggested that if it were up to her he wouldn't he stepping foot inside.

John walked past her and straight towards the living room.

"Wait!" she called after him but he didn't turn.

He opened the door and found Finch at the writing desk, her back to him. She turned when he entered but her facial expression did not change. John closed the door behind him, right in the face of the furious cleaner.

"Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise," she said with a wan smile, standing and dusting the pencil shavings off her lap. "I was just in the middle of-"

"Do you have my phone?" John said abruptly.

She raised her eyebrows in an almost impressive display of surprise. "Pardon me?"

"You have my phone," John said, deciding that questions weren't going to get him anywhere. "You have my phone, I left it here and you kept it. Or you took it. Either way, I want it back."

"Is this about those silly, little articles I wrote?" Finch laughed.

"This is about the fact that you have my phone and used it to harass my ex-girlfriend," John snapped.

"I assure you she gave up the information quite willingly," Finch smirked, going across to the sofa and dropping down onto it. "She was quite eager to tell her tale."

"Not everyone is like you," John said. "Not everyone has a tale to tell. Sarah, for all her faults, isn't a sneak. She wouldn't have said any of those things."

"Well," Finch fought a malicious smile, "sometimes artistic licence has to be taken."

John wanted to ask her why she had done it. He wouldn't to ask her why she was so hell-bent on smearing Sherlock. But perhaps she just enjoyed hurting people.

"You know," John said quietly, staring at her, "people say that Sherlock is a psychopath, but I think people like you are the true psychopaths. He may only help people as a by-product of what he does but at least he doesn't hurt people just because he can."

"Sherlock wasn't hurt by my article though was he?" Finch replied with a wan smile. "He's too emotionally numb to be affected by something like that. But I bet you were."

"I don't pay attention to trashy magazine crap," John replied furiously, in an attempt to hide the obvious.

"It's alright," Finch said, with a rueful smile, "any normal person would have been."

John could see that she was twisting the topic away from what he had come there for. He shrugged off her words. "I just want my phone," he said stonily.

Finch didn't reply for what felt like an age. Her expression was as cool as glass, if John had ever doubted that someone had a soul, it would be her.

Finally, she stood and, without saying a word, crossed the room and left. John stared after her, wondering whether he was about to be kicked out or if she was going to call the police.

Moments later, she returned. And in her extravagantly manicured hand was his phone. She held it out for him, with a slight shrug. "We all do things that we are not proud of when we're desperate," she said.

John took it from her, barely daring to believe that it was his. But when he turned it on it was obvious that it was. The screensaver, the icons, the phonebook. Everything was how he had left it weeks ago.

"That is some poor excuse for theft," he said coldly, sliding it into his pocket.

"I just wanted Sherlock to realise the gravity of his situation," Finch said coolly, taking her seat back on the sofa and lighting a cigarette from her pocket.

John watched as she took a drag and exhaled it slowly between her plump lips.

"My daughter is dead," she said, leaning back in her seat. "Sherlock might be concerned about losing his live-in whore, but I lost my only child."

"What?" John said, taken aback. "Live-in whore?"

Finch laughed humourlessly. "Sorry, darling," she said, "I mean, _lover_."

"Wait, wait, wait," John said hurriedly, ignoring the jibe, "why was he worried about losing me? What the hell are you talking about?"

Finch hesitated, the cigarette poised in front of her lips. "Oh, you poor, stupid man," she finally said with a shake of her head, "has it really taken you this long to realise that Sherlock Holmes is in love with you?"

John stared at her. "How would you know something like that?"

"Shortly after my, very successful I might add, article was published and you threw your little tantrum," she said, every word filled with a venomous regret, as though it was taking every effort to tell him this, "he came to me to do another interview-"

"_What_?" John burst out.

"He thought that if he did an interview with me," Finch said condescendingly, "that I would _leave you alone_. For a cold, unfeeling bastard he certainly spares a lot of time obsessing over you and your happiness."

John was thunderstruck. If he hadn't learnt to take everything Finch said with a truckload of salt he probably would have texted Sherlock right then and there and demanded if it was true.

"Are you lying?" he asked, forcing himself not to betray any of the emotions he felt.

Finch gave a genuine laugh, it peeled out with a strange, tinny quality to it. "I never lie, darling," she gave a smile, "I merely embellish."

"Are you _embellishing_ then?" John snapped, glancing at the door.

Finch sighed, with a roll of her eyes. The cigarette was trickling ash all over the floor. "Oh, well. I suppose you can't win them all."

John didn't know if this was an affirmation or not but he didn't wait another moment to find out. He turned and tore out of the room, down the hallway and out of the front door. He had no idea of how he intended to get back to Baker Street, but he knew that if he had to walk, hitchhike or fly he would get there.

...

Sherlock arrived home to find it still deserted. John wasn't home and there wasn't any sign that he had been there. Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa and lay there in silence.

He had a feeling that he was on the verge of a breakthrough in the case. He didn't know why or how but he could feel it. He felt that cutting Finch out of the equation had brought him closer to the truth than ever before.

He sat up and glanced at his phone. There were no messages. He was waiting for Lestrade to text him and tell him that he could speak to Yvonne. He didn't know how he was going to wait when he had so many questions that felt like they needed answering right now.

His eyes fell on a jumper John had left behind on the arm of his chair. Sherlock glanced around, as though he expected to see some ogling onlooker. He slid out of his seat and went across to it, trailing his fingers up the soft material.

"Why does he wear these stupid things?" he asked out loud, plucking it up between his finger and thumb and looking at it closely.

It still had the price sticker on. Typical John.

He held it up in front of him, noting how there were bits of cotton and tissue stuck to it. His palms seemed to be slightly clammy, despite the coolness of the day.

Before he was entirely aware of what he was doing, he held the jumper up to his face and inhaled. It still held the stiff scent of when it had been bought but mingled with it was John's own brand. A mixture of cheap men's deodorant, a vaguely mediciney smell that he supposed had been acquired via the medical centre and a musky, human smell that he supposed was just John's own.

He breathed it into his nose and mouth, closed his eyes and imagined that it was John that he was clinging to. He felt a shiver go up his spine.

The door opened without warning and Sherlock dropped the jumper onto the seat beside him so quickly that he surprised himself with his own reflexes.

"John-" he said huskily, knowing that he was flushed with arousal.

John said nothing. He closed the door behind him and in one swift movement crossed the room and was pressing Sherlock hard against him with what was an exceptionally deep kiss. One of his hands held the back of Sherlock's neck, not roughly but with a firmness that Sherlock hadn't felt him use before.

He touched John's waist and felt John's hand slide up into his hair, clutching tightly to him and at the same time forcing his tongue between Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt a trickle of saliva leak from the corner of his mouth and clung tighter to John's waist. John was so close that they were almost entwined and John's hands were threaded through his hair, holding him firmly against him.

When they finally broke apart, all of the indifference Sherlock had carefully constructed overnight had vanished in a matter of moments. John gently loosened his grip on his hair and slid his hands down so they were cupping Sherlock's face.

"I'm so sorry," he said softly, a strange expression on his face.

Sherlock pulled back a little, he felt a little claustrophobic and overwhelmed by the suddenness of everything.

"What?" he said stupidly.

John loosened his grip on him, sliding his clammy palms down to Sherlock's chest. "I'm sorry for being... being such an idiot."

"Do you expect me to just fall into your arms then?" Sherlock said wryly. "You might be feeling sentimental but there is still the question of my apology."

John looked, as he had intended, incredibly taken aback. He had obviously assumed that the smouldering kiss would conveniently make Sherlock forget about the events of the past two days.

"Apology?" John said incredulously.

"Or do you think just because you're as hard as a mastiff in heat that it would wipe my memory?" Sherlock said archly.

John went pink and turned away with a huff. "I'm not apologising."

"Well," Sherlock took a seat on John's jumper, to hide it from his view, "I can't but wonder what brought on this sudden change of heart."

"I spoke to..." John broke off, turning to him irritably. "What about _my _apology?"

"Why on earth would I need to apologise to you?" Sherlock said, in a genuine amazement.

"You..." John stared at him, clearly fighting a growing sense to smack him, "you are so pitiless, so blind to other people's feelings. Didn't you see how that article upset me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, "but there was nothing I could do. I told you."

"But even when there's nothing to be done, you could have said something," John snapped, losing his patience. "You could have said _something_!"

"Said _what_?" Sherlock burst out in frustration. "What did you want me to say?"

"That it would be alright!" John almost shouted at him, his eyes flashing with anger. "That things would be alright! That _I _would be alright!"

"Oh, I see," Sherlock said coolly, leaning forward in his seat and forgetting about John's jumper, "you wanted me to drip sweet nothings in your ear."

"_Fuck_," John burst out. "You are so... so... _frustrating._"

"And you are so blind!" Sherlock retorted. "Arrogant, ridiculous, blind _idiot_."

"Well, maybe I should just move out anyway!" John shouted at him. "If I'm such an idiot! If I'm so _unworthy _of you!"

He stomped across to the armchair and yanked his jumper out from underneath Sherlock. Sherlock stood up quickly, staring at him indignantly.

"I'm sick of being treated like your personal assistant, your personal whipping boy, your personal property!" He stalked over to the kitchen counter, flinging his jumper across the cluttered bench and sending a tea cup skittering off the side.

Sherlock heard it smash against the tiles. He watched silently as John stared around the room, spotting his laptop on the sofa, where Sherlock had been 'borrowing' it.

"And I'm sick of you using my things! I earn my own money, I buy my own things! I don't need you _touching it_!"

"Then get out!" Sherlock said angrily. "No one's stopping you!"

"I will!" John roared.

"Fine!" Sherlock snarled.

They stared at each other in silence, both of them panting, both of them flushed and gazing at each other in intense frustration.

Sherlock wasn't aware of moving, but the next thing he was conscious of was being pinned against John, his hands roving desperately over the smaller man's back and kissing him viciously. John's hands were clutching his hair again and he was returning the kiss with equal ferocity, his teeth nicking Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wound his hand around John's shirt and tugged him roughly towards him and towards the bedroom. John did not protest or resist. True, he was too busy ravaging Sherlock's mouth- and cheeks and chin and jaw and neck. He stumbled forward, allowing himself to be guided towards the door.

John only seemed to become aware that they had been moving when Sherlock's back hit the door of the bedroom. John broke away, his breathing fast and haggard. The same as Sherlock's. Sherlock smiled wryly at him, running a hand through the doctor's slightly too pristine hair.

John's hands were still clutching the collar of his shirt and his eyes were fixed on his, as though he didn't dare blink for fear of losing sight of him.

He didn't speak. Sherlock assumed it was because he was too choked with lust to form words, but in reality it was because he didn't trust himself to speak without his voice betraying the depth of his feeling.

Sherlock fumbled with the doorknob and fell back against it, dragging John with him. John slammed the door behind him and hastily tore at Sherlock's shirt, his fingers clammy and fumbling ineffectually with the buttons. Sherlock relieved him of the duty, tearing his shirt off with an impatient motion.

"Sherlock!" John said in a muffled voice, as buttons rained down onto the floor.

Sherlock didn't reply, he did the same to John's shirt and without pause moved his fingers to the band of his jeans. John's mind somehow kicked into action and his finger clumsily undid the buttons on his own trousers. He stepped out of them and kicked them away, taking advantage of Sherlock's temporarily distracted state to run his hands up his slim, pale body and paw at his hardened nipples.

"John..." Sherlock gasped, curling his back.

"Hurry up," John breathed.

Sherlock let his jeans slide down his thighs and kicked them away, yanking John forward from around the waist and pushing him towards the bed.

John fell back against the bed, and was soon joined by Sherlock, who knelt over him and took his time in sliding his hands up John's body as he gently leant his body against his. John leant his head back with a breathless sound, goosebumps erupting beneath Sherlock's touch.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock said.

Dressed only in their underwear and pressed as closely as two people could be, it was obvious and fascinating to see how the arousal and cold was affecting the other's body. The erect nubs of their nipples, how the skin of their stomachs flinched at their touch and, of course, their twin mounds of arousal pressed against each other and only contained by a thin layer of cotton.

"No," John replied, resting a hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, not believing him for a moment but not quite concerned enough to cease their ministrations to go and turn on the heat.

He allowed John to tug his mouth to his in a softer, chaster kiss than before and run his hand down between them to paw at the bulge of his sex. It throbbed at John's touch, as though it recognised the calluses on his hands, the shape of his fingers.

Sherlock gave a low growl as John squeezed it, rubbing his palm into the base and then rocking his hips upward to meet his.

"Fuck," John breathed, panting a little at the sensation.

Before he completely lost control of himself, Sherlock moved backwards off of John and stood. He thumbed the band of his underwear, revelling in the way John's eyes roamed hungrily over his body. He struggled upright, leaning on his elbows and watching in fascination as Sherlock finally released himself from the restraint. The rush of cold air wasn't altogether pleasant.

John sat up with some difficulty, as Sherlock laid down beside him, basking in John's gaze.

"How can you be so confident?" John smiled, trailing his fingers down Sherlock's stomach to the tussle of dark hair around his straining manhood. He threaded his fingers through it and relished in Sherlock's gasp.

"I know what you think of me," Sherlock said, with a lazy flutter of his eyelashes. "Why should I care what anyone else thinks about me?"

John rolled his eyes, though Sherlock thought something softened in his manner. He fumbled with his own briefs, his eyes never shifting from Sherlock's body. He paused, his thumbs hooked underneath the band. A moment later he tore them down and off.

Blushing a little, he turned back to Sherlock, who was watching him with eyes darkened with lust. John leant down and pressed his lips against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock gasped in surprise. John smirked into his skin and kissed lower, parting his lips and allowing some of his saliva to drip onto Sherlock's skin. He kissed just above his navel and then just below and paused only on the sensitive skin around his pubis, holding his lips against it for a few moments just so he could enjoy the small, breathless sounds of pleasure Sherlock made, as he desperately tried to create friction against John's mouth.

John finally stopped teasing him, when Sherlock's breaths became increasingly frantic and mingled with increasingly vocal moans, and leant back on his heels.

"Lie on your front," he said.

Sherlock hesitated, blinking hazily at him for a moment and then obeyed, rolling onto his front. John swallowed. Sherlock turned to look at him and John swallowed thickly, the saliva thick in his throat.

"You know after the first time we..." Sherlock paused with a smile, "fornicated, I bought a bottle of something called... ah, lubricant."

John had to fight a smile. "Yes, I've heard of it. Where is it?"

"It's in the top drawer of the chest," Sherlock said, resting his chin on his hands.

John fetched it. He had to admit that he struggled to imagine Sherlock walking into a supermarket or chemist to buy lube, amongst the other sex products, goat's weed and condoms.

It was in a white and blue tube. It could have been toothpaste if it hadn't been for the word _Amorous _printed across it. John pulled the top off and squeezed some of it into his hand. It was a clear gel and didn't stick between his fingers, like some of the cheap lubes he'd had had experience with.

He knelt by the bed, touching Sherlock's thigh with his clean hand. "Part your legs a little bit wider," he said softly.

Sherlock obeyed, John saw his fingers curl into the covers and his back tense in apprehension. John slid his hand higher up Sherlock's thigh and gently touched his exposed entrance.

Sherlock exhaled sharply. "Ah! John, it's cold."

"Sorry," John murmured, taking every care to push his finger inside as gently as he could.

He could feel that Sherlock was incredibly tense. He slipped a finger deep inside and felt Sherlock's body spasm.

"John!"

John didn't reply, he slid another finger inside. The tightness almost took him by surprise. After being trespassed upon twice, Sherlock still felt as taut as a virgin and it sent a gush of heat down through John's body.

He slid his fingers out and Sherlock turned to look at him again, a slightly dazed expression on his face. John squeezed a bit more of the gel onto his fingers and applied it to his cock, sliding his fingers around the heated appendage and gently caressing it up and down to ensure that he didn't hurt Sherlock.

He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him with a heated, wanton expression, his eyes darting between John's face and his slick manhood.

He met John's eye and, with almost agonizingly slow movements, crawled onto his hands and knees, treating John to an eyeful of every private crevice of his body. John's sex gave an appreciative throb and heat pooled around his crotch.

Sherlock back was curved, his head was raised and his palms were pressed hard into the bed, in evident apprehension of what he knew was coming. John touched his cock to Sherlock's red, stretched entrance and they gave a strangled moan in unison.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and John could feel he was trembling slightly against him, "John, take me. I need to feel you... feel you inside of me-"

John bit his lip to bridle his moan and held Sherlock's waist gently with both hands so he wouldn't forget himself and take him too roughly. He wanted to be gentle with Sherlock, he didn't want this time to cause him any discomfort, before or after the fact.

Sherlock's whole body curled as John pushed inside of him. The familiar, yet at the same time overwhelmingly intense sensation, pulsed through John, the delirious pleasure of being joined with Sherlock's body and of having such a passionate intimacy with him rushed through him in a heated wave.

"John..." Sherlock whimpered, his cool, composed, cynical expression long melted away.

John wondered what people would say if they could see Sherlock when he was like this, when his raw sexuality was brought sharply into focus. The thought sent a shiver up John's spine and he thrust inside of Sherlock with more force than he had intended.

Sherlock have a strangled whine, clawing at the covers as John's sex hit that strange part of him that sent unrestrained pleasure through his privates and then slowly, like lava through his entire body. John bent down over him, so that his body, cold but damp with perspiration, was pressed against his back. He felt one of John's hands clasp his pulsing sex and clumsily stroke it, his fingers damp and clammy.

Sherlock had never felt so owned than at that moment. The sensation of John's weight against him, of his cock buried so deeply inside of him and of his hands caressing him with ungainly tenderness filled him with overwhelming ecstasy and a dizzy certainty that this was the embodiment of perfection.

John's stomach muscles were tautening with every thrust and roll of his hips inside of Sherlock, Sherlock could feel them moving against him. John's nipples brushed against his skin, hard from the cold and from intensifying arousal. Sherlock couldn't help thinking how he would love to feel John's nipple in his mouth, to taste it and to bite it-

"Ugh-_John_," he moaned, hunching his back and pressing his chin to his chest as he felt John's ball sac cuff him as he entered him.

He hadn't realised such intimacy had been possible.

"Shhh," John said shakily, his hand leaving Sherlock's tingling manhood and curling around his waist to hold Sherlock even tighter to him.

"I need you..." Sherlock garbled, not aware that he was speaking.

John panted, leaning low over him, his breath hot in Sherlock's ear and his movements becoming rougher. "Yes..." he hissed, pressing his face against Sherlock's shoulder. "Fuck..."

He gently suckled on Sherlock's skin, wanting to brand him as his before he came. He bit him very carefully and felt Sherlock jerk against him with a pleasured cry.

"Oh! John," he moaned, "I'm going to..."

John held him hard against him. "Shhh, it's alright," he said huskily.

Sherlock wasn't aware of speaking or thinking or moving. His body was rocking up and against John, his back was arching on its own accord every time John impaled him on his cock and his own was throbbing viciously, begging for release.

Sherlock felt John's hand on his, felt his damp fingers entwine between his and gave a low, helpless groan.

"Oh-_oh_ _John_."

John loved hearing Sherlock say his name before he climaxed.

Sherlock's seed burst violently onto his own stomach. He gave a desperate cry, tossing his head. John's eyes rolled back in his head, he closed them tightly and tore at his lip as his own orgasm overcame him in a forceful wave.

"_Ugh_," he said thickly, thrusting once more and coming deep inside of Sherlock.

He felt it leak sluggishly down his thighs.

Sherlock's head was still bowed. His hands twisted into the covers and John's hand threaded through one. If John hadn't still been buried to the hilt inside of him, he could almost have been praying.

John straightened up with some difficulty, and gently pulled out. Sherlock collapsed against the bed, his slender frame heaving.

John dared, in his current pleasure drunken state, to stroke back Sherlock's hair from his face. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes hazy and looking exhausted.

John arranged the pillows at the head of the bed and leant against them, still catching his own breath. He gazed at Sherlock's fallen figure.

"Sure you don't want a cup of tea or something?"

"I thought a cigarette was traditional," Sherlock replied wryly, rolling onto his back and crawling upright.

"Nice try," John said archly.

Sherlock didn't reply. He deposited himself next to John, staring across at the door. He looked incredibly and gorgeously dishevelled. John's continuous attacks on his hair had taken their toll and John's bite mark on his shoulder was very red against his white skin.

John gazed at him, wondering how he could have had such remarkable fortune and misfortune to stumble across a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"Finch told me what you did," he said at length, feeling vaguely sheepish.

Sherlock glanced at him. "What did I do?"

"You gave her the interview she wanted." John hesitated. "So she would leave me alone."

"Don't melt all over me," Sherlock replied abruptly, though his cheeks coloured slightly. "I just couldn't stand your whining."

There was silence. Sherlock stole a look at John and then hastily looked away.

"Well, thank you," John said at length. "I means a lot to me."

"Don't thank me yet," Sherlock replied coolly. "I doubt that we've seen the end of her."

"You know," John said, with a small smile, "I don't think I care. I think I finally saw her for what she was today: just a sad, bitter old woman."

There was another silence. This time broken by Sherlock.

"So who was it?" he asked, not looking at John.

"What?" John said, sinking lower against the pillows. He would have liked to lie against Sherlock but he didn't suppose the detective would approve.

"Who made you so frightened of your own sexuality?" Sherlock said calmly, glancing at him with a knowing look.

John stared at him. _This_ subject again. Sherlock just never gave up.

He didn't reply immediately. As much as he wanted to tell the truth, he didn't know whether he trusted himself not to react badly to having such a closely guarded secret floating about.

He decided to flip a coin, of sorts.

He leant his head against Sherlock's shoulder, expecting to be shrugged off. To his surprise, Sherlock, admittedly after something of a pause, slid his arm around John's shoulders and allowed him to rest his head against his chest. He smelt of cologne, semen, sweat and Sherlock's own familiar scent.

"My father," he said at last.

Sherlock didn't speak.

"My father wasn't very... ah, _new age_, shall we say," John went on, hardly believing he was saying this when all the counsellors he had ever seen had never been able to extract it from him. "He made it crystal clear what he would do to us if we turned out "that way"."

He gave a humourless laugh.

"By the time I got to high school I was so filled with shame and dread that it didn't take much to convince myself that I was as straight as a ruler."

John's words were filling him with an overwhelming sense of regret and guilt.

"I managed to enjoy having sex with women. I liked it actually. So, the occasional longing for another man didn't frighten me as much as it could have."

"Well, you fooled me," Sherlock spoke at last.

"I had years of practice," John said in a low voice. "God, this is depressing."

"Yes, I suppose the thought that you've spent twenty years of your adult life repressing your sexuality and forcing yourself to live your life according to the whims of your controlling, aggressive father _would _be slightly depressing," Sherlock said with a yawn.

John rolled his eyes. "It's difficult to change a habit of a lifetime," he said.

"Excuses, excuses," Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

"Oh, please," John said. "You're the most repressed, stubborn, unchanging person I've ever met."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to look at him. His dark eyes seemed to bore right through him to the bone.

A moment later he spoke, his voice low and caressing. "It'll be alright," he said softly.

John felt his heart stir inside of him, his grip tightened on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock smirked and laid back against the bed. "You should have seen your face. I thought you were going to start humping my leg."

"Sherlock!" John said, abashed.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," Sherlock said mildly. "I am the most repressed, stubborn, unchanging person you've ever met, after all."

John glowered at him. "Wanker."

"Idiot."

TBC


End file.
